“Where are ye bound now?” I asked.
“I thought of taking a room for the night at the local tavern, then, on the morrow, setting on a walking tour,” he replied.
“Nay, ye don’t want the change house,” I warned him. “The reeky place is always crawn with the worst of the worst, and they will surely overcharge ye for a ticky bed, watered down ale and broth with a wee hank of gristle.”
“What do you suggest, Professor MacCullaich?”
“I’ve plenty o’ room at Slate House, and ye’re welcome to stay as me guest as long as ye wish, or to use me house as a base for yer walking about,” I told him. “I’ve only the servants to keep me company and the louts are no company a’tall.” I quickly added: “Nae that I would interfere with yer activities.”
“Nor I yours,” Holmes said.
“But, I tell ye, I would welcome discourse over the evening meal from such a quick-minded lad as yerself,” I said. “And, aye, ye were quite correct when ye said I’d lately become interested in one of the henges left in the Highlands by the blood-drinking Picts of yore. Aspects of it trouble me sorely, and have for years. I am in need of some point of view other than me own to make sense of it.” I paused, then decided to throw it all on the line, if only so the lad had some gleaming of what he might be getting himself into. “I need to ken that I am nae stark barking mad.”
Holmes dinnae answer. His gaze unfocused, and I thought him ready to flee a gyte bodach who countenanced such flummery as hollow-earth saurians, but the hesitation was momentary.
“I should be delighted to spend time as your guest,” Holmes said. “I look forward to your account of the mystery of the standing stones…and your opinion about the unknown realms beneath.”
And so it was on that pale morning so many years ago that the young Sherlock Holmes decided to accompany me to Slate House, a decision that would almost cost us our lives and sanity. But before I turned the cart home, I did have to stop by the village chemist, for Holmes had been quite right about the pain, the elixir prescribed by me sawbones, and the dubious efficacy of the vile brew.
When I told Holmes I had plenty of room to put him up for as long as he pleased, it was nay exaggeration. Slate House could have quartered an army, but the days of lairds and lairge families, of a gathering of the clans, were long past, and seven hundred years of MacCullaich were all distilled into me. Located a fair distance from the village, the estate was comprised of the main house and various outbuildings; a half-dozen or so crofters had hereditary holdings on me land, for which I took only a peppercorn rent, but most of the landed estate was given over to pasturage, wooded tracts, bogs, and rivers and lakes. I allowed fishing rights to villagers at the farthest reaches of the streams, and limited hunting to the boundaries, which kept down the poaching. I dinnae allow access to the deeps, but, for the most part, I needed do nothing to discourage trespassers, as they had lived with dire stories of the region for generations, and knew that terror and danger lurked in the dark heart of the forest.
That day I was too preoccupied with the specimens freighted by Professor Lidenbrock to pay Holmes any heed. I learned later that after being shown his room by Mrs MacDonald, the housekeeper, he vanished on a trek with rucksack and walking stick, taking only some cheese, bread, and ale pressed upon him by Cook.
That evening, just as the land was daurknin and the brilliant swath of stars that mark the Scottish Highlands emerged, Holmes came from out the purple haze looking weary from his day, yet oddly excited. I noticed his boots were edged with wet sand and splashed with a yellowish mud, and though I knew the geology of me own land well enough to hoist him on his own petard I resisted the urge, barely.
“I hope ye had a pleasant trek, Mr Holmes,” I ventured.
“Very pleasant, and informative.”
“Oh?”
“I should like you to tell me about the henge.”
“Certainly,” I agreed, but put it off till after supper. Cook was very particular about meal times, and I had learned over the years to nae anger Cook, lest I doom myself to a week of cold porridge and half-boiled mutton.
Supper was a pleasant affair, a time of sparkling conversation and Holmes’ dry and sometimes caustic wit. It had been a long time since I had enjoyed intercourse with such a quick and lively mind, one filled with so much varied information, able nae only to detect the flaws in me own arguments but to also erect theories and theses constructed entirely of unassailable logic. The staff was rather taken with Sherlock Holmes, especially Cook, who doted on the lad, but I could nae say whether that was due to any aspect of his personality, which was affable, or simply because it was a welcome respite from the cantankerous old curmudgeon who was their usual charge. After the meal, Holmes and I retired to the library. He had acquired the habit of a late-night smoke in university, but had no pipe so I gave him an old clay one that had belonged to an uncle o’ mine, an old salt, which I told him was his to keep, The only tobacco I had was a strong shag that every creature on Earth seemed to detest, but Holmes seemed to like it well enough. As we sat afore the fire and sent blue clouds roiling upward, I told him of the ancient ring of standing stones that exerted such a strong pull upon me attention, and me imagination…again.
“Me forefathers have lived here for several thousand years, but officially, under the Crown, ye understand, we trace from the early Twelfth Century, when this estate was claimed and the first house constructed,” I told him. “It was once more modest than what ye see now, but it was reconstructed and enlarged several times o’er the years. The Highlands, as ye ken, is home to many dark myths and legends. Though the fashion now, in this age of steam and steel, is to set aside beliefs of our forebears, there be many people in such a village as Kilglarig, who have nae forgotten the old ways, still light candles against the darkness, and propitiate the devils that the Church claim were dispelled by the coming of Our Savior.
“Despite this new dominion established by the hand of Man, where telegraph lines are strung to primitive outposts, railway tracks are laid in the wasteland, and trips around the world may be accomplished in eighty days or less, there still exist dark places in the world,” I continued. “The forests, bogs and lakes here are also in the heart of darkness, to coin a phrase, long shunned by people.”
“Myths and legends can be persistent, especially when certain elements of a landscape reinforce those beliefs,” Holmes observed. “When there are unexplained disappearances over a period of time and occasional mysterious experiences by travelers, which are of course exaggerated in the retelling, those aspects of the landscape become enhanced and the feelings of fear and dread are magnified.”
The expression on me face brought a thin chuckle to Holmes. I again wondered if I was somehow an object of ridicule.
“I spent my day tramping about your estate, guided by my earlier observations,” he told me. “I also enjoyed several cups of tea and a ‘wee dram of whiskey’ from a few of your crofters who were quite willing to relate local yarns. I also had a very interesting talk with an elderly poacher who swore he would never venture into your deep woods, not for ‘the fattest deers of the laird,’ but he could not explain his reticence. Many elderly villagers had conflicting tales to tell. Reverend O’Cain, the vicar, was unusually helpful, showing me several old documents, including one written in Latin five centuries ago, that told how the ‘minions of Satan were quelled in a blasphemous place long known as the Devil’s Ring’.”
“Ye have had quite a busy day, Mr Holmes,” I muttered, and I fear I let a hint of annoyance creep into me words. “I apologize, Mr Holmes. Ye are me guest, and I have asked ye to help me.”
He made a dismissive gesture. “It is my nature to gather all the information I can about a subject, winnowing the unnecessary only when my hypothesis has been firmly established. I did not seek information from other sources to diminish the need for information from you, but to enhance it. I can no more get to the heart of a matter, to the empirical truth, without information than could the chi
ldren of Israel make bricks for a solid foundation without straw. When it comes to information, I am a sponge, and I can no more ignore my nature than can a leopard when face to face with prey. Now, Professor, please tell me all that troubles you, and, please, I pray, leave out nothing, even information that may seem redundant to me. Even a story twice told has value in the retelling, if only because different eyes have different weaknesses.”
“As I said,” I continued, mollified by his words and taken aback by the strength of his argument, “there have always been dark stories about the region, about the land around this estate. Even in the days of the Picts there were stories of fearsome creatures in the lakes, the woods and beneath the earth.
“And also about the henge, the standing stones which in the records of the vicarage be named the Devil’s Ring,” I said. “It is a very old construction, far older than the tribe of Picts which used to inhabit this land, even older than the Caledonii that predated the Pictish peoples. Geological examinations of the henge reveal it may be the oldest stone ring in Scotland, perhaps the British Isles.”
“And an archaeological examination…” Holmes prompted.
“Aye, ye come to the rub, Mr Holmes, for I am a geologist and paleontologist, nae an archaeologist,” I admitted. “I tried to interest several archaeologists, first in Edinburgh, then elsewhere, and finally in London, but none were willing to even entertain the notion of a megalithic circle older than the period in which such stones were raised.” I paused. “It was nae only for me tolerance of Lidenbrock’s supposedly daft notions of the world within that I was sent to Coventry.”
Holmes nodded.
“I have spent all me life here, man and boy, and knew well all the old stories whispered by nannies and servants from the village, told on dark winter nights by me cousins,” I said. “Yet they were nae but bonny stories to me, campfire tales to raise a chill, for I had always had a scientific turn of mind, even as a wee bairn. However, as I delved deeper into the mystery of the henge, especially when I found meself so cruelly rebuffed by those who should have been most interested, I was drawn to the old stories, going through the ancient annals and consulting the writings of folklorists.
“When people think of Scotland and its legends and lore, they inevitably look to such odd beasties as Nessie of the Loch or the Uabhas that supposedly haunt the lonely ballochs lying in wait for travelers unaware; either that or they turn to such haints as ghosts and banshees, wee folk like the Brownies, Kelpies and Red Cap Goblins. But, I tell ye, Mr Holmes, all those stories are really rather recent, like patina upon a rock, hiding the ancient surface beneath. As I have been able to reconstruct the old stories, the Earth was at one time home to, and ruled by, a race of vast monster-gods, long afore the advent of mankind. The further one goes back in time, the less we hear of our familiar bogies and hobgoblins, the more we encounter such names as Byatis, Yig, Cthulhu and Atlach-Nacha. Any of those names familiar to ye?”
Holmes frowned a long moment, considering the weird names, longer than I thought necessary. In the end, he shook his head.
“Very few people, even mythologists and folklorists have heard o’ them, and those who have are often associated with study of the occult sciences in some way,” I said. “Until I began to delve into the mysteries of the region, the henge in particular, I was as ignorant of them as the next man. According to me studies, humanity’s relation to these beings was a cross between worshiper and prey, but at some point in time the Old Ones, as they are often called, were banished from this material realm, either beyond the dimensions of time and space or in some artificial prison, perhaps underground or in some ancient structure, as Cthulhu is supposed to be contained, somehow, in the city of R’lyeh beneath the Pacific Ocean.” I searched his face for some betraying sign, but saw none. “I ken how this must sound to ye, Mr Holmes.”
“Many faiths hold that the physical world revealed by our senses does not comprise the length, breadth or height of creation, that there exists a reality unperceived by ordinary means,” he said. “Many believe forces beyond our knowledge are involved in an eternal war, a conflict usually interpreted as a struggle between good and evil. Though I would never describe myself as a man of faith, at least how the term is used in the vulgar tongue, I would be a fool to believe our senses reveal all there is to know. Also, science is now revealing worlds once unseen by use of waves and beams. I may not understand it, but I cannot deny it.”
“But monster-gods, Mr Holmes?” I queried, wondering if the lad was merely patronizing an old man.
Holmes shrugged. “As with Professor Lidenbrock’s claims, if there are hidden lands, there may also be hidden inhabitants. I do not know, therefore the possibility cannot be discounted.”
“Fair enough,” I agreed. “I see ye are nae a gullible man, nae prone to fancy, and neither am I. As I investigated the ancient lore, I was led to seek sites deeper in the forest, among the reeking bogs, along the lakes and rushing rivers, and finally the henge.” I paused. “I take it ye saw the henge with yer own eyes today?”
“I did,” he confirmed. “I spent the last hours of the afternoon there before my return.”
“ And what was yer impression of the henge?”
“Surprisingly well constructed and geometrically complex,” he replied. “All the megaliths of Britain display sophisticated skills in engineering and geometry, but your example goes far beyond that. Also, the stones are not native to the area.”
“Nay, nay they are nae from here,” I agreed. “They are composed of a rare black form of diorite, the nearest source of which is hundreds of miles to the northeast. ‘Tis a very hard mineral to quarry without explosives, even harder to transport, dress and place. Yet all that was done by a people who must have lived long afore the Pictish races.” I paused, looked at the young man with a measure of trepidation, then asked: “Did ye…sense anything else about the henge?”
Holmes tilted his head, as a hound might when confronted with a master who has asked a foolish question, and his eyebrows rose inquisitively. He looked askance at me.
“Please bear with me, laddie, as I try to explain to ye something I’ve nae ever been able to explain to meself,” I said. “Long ago, when I was but a lad, I accepted a dare from me cousins and passed a night in the embrace of the henge. I saw the rising of the moon and the slow swirl of the stars in the crystal sky, heard the rush of the nearby river in me ears. There, I experienced what I convinced meself was naught but a passing strange dream. I saw black winged shapes pass between me and the stars, and felt the writhing of great beasts within the bowels of the earth. Terrifying, but nae so much as the whispering that came out of the darkness, sibilant words in an unknown tongue. I fled that place and hid in the bole of an old tree once struck by lightning; just afore dawn’s greying, I returned to the henge so I would be found there and the wager won. I told no one the truth of what happened, and have nae…till this moment.
“Over the passing decades I nae only convinced meself that it was but a dream, but denied also the cowardice of me flight,” I continued. “As I researched the old stories, looking for the truth behind them, I again turned to the henge, but this time with the eye of a scientist who has made geology and paleontology his life’s work. I suppose there was a part of me that wanted to dispel the terror of that long ago night, though it is now but a dimly recalled night-haint. As I did when I was young, I found meself within the ring of stones at the fall of night, but now it was a calculated and deliberate decision, nae the result of a childish dare.
“I was nae sure what would happen, but I dinnae expect to be revisited by the same terrors that once sent a lad running in panic.” Here I paused, nae because of any expression of incredulity in Holmes, but to fight the sour fear threatening to rise in me. “But that is exactly what happened, Mr Holmes. I saw winged shapes against the stars, felt the ground writhe aneath me…and heard the terrible whispers from the darkness beyond the henge.”
I paused to empty the fiery liquid
in me glass, then refilled it and sipped. Me hands were trembling slightly, nae with an infirmity of age but with anxiety.
“And this was no dream?” Holmes asked. “Are you certain of that? A vivid dream can possess all the solidity of a real memory.”
“Nay, I ken beyond doubt it was nae a dream, just as I ken me previous experience was an actuality,” I averred. “However, it comes to mind that if these creatures that fly by night are beyond ken, mayhaps they be shadows cast upon this world from another, much as the shadows projected upon the walls of Plato’s Cave. Or they may be creatures from beneath; as I perused the old records, I wondered if Lidenbrock saw not dinosaurs at the center of the Earth, but the monster-gods of elder myth, minions of Cthulhu, hence me interest in his work. But I ever come back to that which whispers when the sky is bright above the henge…aye, now there we might make some advance, do ye nae think? For where there are whispers heard there must be nearby…a Whisperer.”
Holmes frowned, and for a moment I feared I had made a mistake in revealing what I had heretofore kept secret. Despite me affinity toward the lad, he was yet a stranger, and a bairn-face at that, likely filled with the natural contempt always held by the young against the aged. When he spoke, however, I let out a breath I had nae knowledge I held.
“We must accept the fact that your experiences at the standing stones were not dreams, otherwise the investigation ends here and must continue with an alienist,” he said. “Likewise, we must assume they are not visions induced by the seepage of gases from beneath the earth—I saw no tale-tell fissures from which such fumes might issue, and if noxious gases could gather in sufficient quantities to affect you in the open air, surely you would have died; at the very least I would have felt similar effects, and I felt none.
“You are quite correct about manifestations of creatures above and below—they are beyond any possibility of investigation, for the reasons you give, and for others of course,” Holmes continued. “But, the Whisperer…yes, that is the key to this mystery. The Whisperer must be attainable to us, because the whispers heard by you exhibit substance in our physical world. What we call sound is but vibrations upon the air, and any sound may be traced to its source by means as old as the hunter’s art.”
Sherlock Holmes: Cthulhu Mythos Adventures (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 2) Page 20