Dragonfire

by Anne Forbes

  Tired after his long flight and more than a little afraid of being seen, his sharp eyes scanned the grey water below, seeking a resting place on one of the tiny islands in the firth. A ruined abbey showed briefly against the silver water and feathering his wings slightly, he edged towards it. Dark, deserted and safe from prying eyes it would serve his purpose. He landed on a broken ledge and rested gratefully while considering his next move. No longer, it seemed, could he rely on total darkness to conceal him; the unexpected brightness of so many lights was a problem that neither he nor his master had either envisaged or expected but there were other ways of travelling unseen. Silently, he launched himself over the sea, uttering a dreadful cry that echoed dismally over the waves and struck fear into the hearts of some nesting gulls. As he glided low over the water, the sea beneath him began to bubble and froth, giving off a dense white mist that rose and began to roll in billowing clouds towards Edinburgh.

  Neil and Clara did not notice the mist at first as they were too busy climbing the steep hillside towards the well. They soon realized to their horror that even with their torches on, they could barely see a few feet in front of them.

  “Neil, this isn’t funny,” Clara gasped, looking round at the thick whiteness that surrounded them. “Where’s the well?”

  “A bit to the right, I think. Look, I’ll lead the way and you hold on to my jacket. It’s not that much further.”

  Gingerly they moved forward, step by step, and it was more by luck than judgment that Neil found the old stonework that surrounded the well. They peered through the grating into its depths, but there was little to see apart from struggling clumps of ferns and grasses. The hill was eerily silent with no sound apart from the steady drip of moisture to comfort them.

  Suddenly, Clara grasped Neil by the arm. “I heard something,” she whispered. “No, not from the well,” she muttered as Neil leant over to listen. “Over there … shhhhh … there’s someone over there, in the mist!”

  On impulse she picked up a piece of broken rock that lay nearby; it was a weapon of sorts if anyone threatened them. Shivering with fear, she crouched by the well, and had just pulled Neil down beside her when a roar of sound erupted from its depths. They leapt to their feet in fright at precisely the same moment that Amgarad, talons outstretched and wings flapping, swooped down to land opposite them.

  It is difficult to say who got the greater fright. Amgarad had certainly not expected to meet anyone at that time of night and after the initial shock saw, to his relief, that his adversaries were merely children. Spreading his wings, he dived at them, his talons ripping the sleeve of Neil’s jacket and his beak tearing at its hood.

  Clara turned to run but then remembered the rock she held in her hand. Screaming at the top of her voice, she threw it at Amgarad and had the satisfaction of seeing him jerk in pain. He loosened his grip on Neil’s jacket and his black, angry eyes turned upon her.

  “Run, Clara!” Neil shouted as he rushed at Amgarad, trying to pinion his wings. The strength of the bird was too much for him, however. Amgarad shrugged him off and, with a dreadful cry, knocked him to the ground and held him with one of his talons.

  “Neil! Clara! Where are you?” The Ranger’s voice rang out through the mist.

  “Here, Dad, here!” screamed Clara.

  Amgarad’s head lifted as he heard the Ranger’s voice. The man was too close. Reluctantly he left Neil, flapped heavily into the air and disappeared into the mist.

  “Neil, are you all right?” Clara sobbed as she ran up. “Dad’s here. I heard him!”

  “Dad! Dad! Over here!” Neil shouted.

  “What was it?” gasped Clara. “It was awful. I’ve never seen a bird like that before. It had a beak like an eagle but its feathers were like … dirty rags!”

  At that moment the Ranger loomed through the fog. Clara threw herself into his arms. “Oh Dad!” she cried. “A bird attacked us!”

  “A bird! Is that what the noise was?” said the Ranger. “Good grief, Neil! Look at your jacket!”

  “Never mind my jacket, Dad! Listen here, at the well. What do you think is making that noise?”

  The Ranger leant over the well and listened to the strange roars, rumblings and hissings that rose from its depths. “That’s strange,” he said looking puzzled. “I don’t understand it. I’ll come up here tomorrow when it’s light and have a scout round. And if I see the bird that did that to your jacket, Neil, I’ll shoot it!”

  Amgarad, hunched on a nearby rock, heard his last remark and smiled nastily. Good luck to him! As he heard them making their way down the slope through the swirling mist, he returned to the well and listened with interest to the noises that emanated from it.

  3. Faery Folk

  The lights were on in the cottage. “Is Mum up?” Clara asked.

  “Yes,” answered their father. “She heard the gate creak and woke me up. You have some explaining to do, the pair of you!”

  Mrs MacLean was furious when they arrived, wet and bedraggled, at the door of the cottage. Her anger, however, quickly changed to concern when she saw how tired both children looked.

  “Take off your things and …! Neil MacLean! What have you done to your jacket? Look at it! Ripped to pieces!”

  John MacLean shook his head. “We’ll go into that later, Janet,” he said warningly. “Now Neil, I want to hear the whole story right from the beginning. Your mother and I are listening.”

  Neil looked at them doubtfully. “I don’t quite know where to start,” he admitted. “Really, it’s to do with the MacArthurs. The … the little people that live in the hill.”

  Janet MacLean looked at her son with startled eyes. “What are you talking about, Neil? People that live in the hill? In Arthur’s Seat?” she said disbelievingly. “Don’t talk rubbish!”

  “Honestly, Mum! I know it sounds crazy but there are people that live in the hill. They call themselves the MacArthurs. Clara and I have known them for years and we still see them sometimes; not as often as we used to, ’cos we’ve got school and homework and stuff, but they’ve always been around. They’re our friends!”

  “And … er … just how did you meet them?” asked his father.

  “I don’t really know. They just always seemed to be around when we were exploring the hill. We knew they were different but we were young then and didn’t think that much about it.”

  “We just thought they were funny,” Clara interrupted. “They could change themselves into birds and animals, you see. If anyone appeared suddenly, they would merge into whatever animal was nearby — a sheep or rabbit or anything. Even a bird. They could still talk to us, though.”

  “It’s true, Dad!” Neil nodded. “They can do magic!”

  His father heaved a sigh. “You don’t have to convince me,” he said quietly. “I know all about the MacArthurs.”

  “You know what?” His wife looked utterly flabbergasted. “Don’t be ridiculous, John! We’ve lived here for years! How on earth can there be people living in the hill that I don’t know about?”

  The Park Ranger sighed. “You remember that bad winter we had a few months before Neil was born?”

  “Of course I remember it! You nearly died rescuing some sheep on the hill! Do you think I’ll ever forget it? You fell down a cliff!”

  “I should have told you at the time but I … well, quite frankly, I thought that if I told you there were faeries living in Arthur’s Seat you’d have thought that the bang I got on my head had scrambled my brains!”

  “Faeries? Neil didn’t say anything about faeries!”

  “It’s what my father used to call them. He was Park Ranger before me, remember? He told me about them. According to him, they’ve always lived in Arthur’s Seat.”

  “You’ve known about them all along, Dad?” Clara sat up, her eyes accusing. “And you never told us!”

  “Well, I didn’t know that you had anything to do with them, did I? And if I’d started talking about faeries living in Arthur’s Seat, you
’d probably have thought I’d gone crazy!”

  “What happened, Dad?” asked Neil curiously.

  “They saved my life, that’s what happened. I slipped and fell down a cliff when I was bringing in some sheep. It was pitch black and there was a blizzard. I more or less knocked myself out when I fell and I’d have died in a snow drift if they hadn’t rescued me. I only came round when I was half way home and after what my father had said … well, I just knew it was them. Your mother thought I’d made my own way back but the truth is that they carried me.”

  “You should have told me, John,” his wife said sharply. “When I opened the door that night I thought I saw some people on the road outside. They had sheepskin jackets on, I remember, but I was so upset at finding you the way I did that all I could think of was getting you to the hospital.”

  “They must have been MacArthurs, then,” Clara nodded. “That’s what they wear — sheepskin jackets over leggings and tunics.”

  “All this, though,” interrupted her father, “doesn’t explain why you had to leave the house tonight and go up to the well!”

  “It was my fault, Dad. Clara didn’t want to come.”

  “But why, Neil? Why go in the first place?”

  “I told you. It was because of the MacArthurs. They’ve stopped coming out onto the hill and … well, I don’t know how to explain it, but there’s a strange atmosphere up there just now.”

  His father nodded. “I’ve noticed it too,” he admitted. “The animals are jumpy, the geese and swans have left the lochs and now there are those weird noises …”

  “Not only from the well,” asserted Neil, “but from other places too. Something’s going on inside the hill, Dad, and I’m worried about them.”

  “I don’t know whether to believe you or not,” muttered his mother, running her hands through her hair.

  “I’m sure they’re in trouble, Mum. I thought they might be coming out of the hill in the dark instead of the daylight. That’s why we went to the well!”

  “Tell me about the bird now,” said his father.

  “It was a horrible thing, Dad,” interrupted Clara. “It was as big as an eagle and had a beak like an eagle, but it was more like a vulture with horrible droopy feathers. And its claws!” she shuddered. “It would have attacked me if Neil hadn’t grabbed it!”

  “I think,” interrupted Neil, “that it got as much of a fright as we did. I don’t think it expected to see anyone at the well and it wanted to scare us off!”

  “It was a bird, Neil! You’re talking about it as though it were a person!”

  “I know,” agreed Neil. “But there was something about its eyes. I wonder if it really was a bird.”

  “You can never can tell with the MacArthurs,” Clara said, nodding seriously.

  “And on that note,” her mother said firmly, “I think we should all go to bed for what is left of the night!”

  4. The Great Whisky Robbery

  The following morning, the mist still crept, thick and heavy, through the streets of Edinburgh, chilling its inhabitants as it billowed in from the sea. In the middle of town the solid bulk of Edinburgh Castle, perched on its massive rock, might well not have been there for all that could be seen of it.

  Despite the mist, the castle that morning was a hive of activity as preparations were in full swing for the most important event in its calendar: the Edinburgh Military Tattoo.

  In a rich, panelled room inside the castle itself, a committee meeting was just breaking up.

  “Well, gentlemen,” remarked its chairman, Lord Harris, slipping a pile of papers into his briefcase, “I think we can congratulate ourselves this year. We’re well ahead of schedule and apart from the moving walkways that the French are insisting upon, there doesn’t really seem to be much that’s problematic!” He looked round the table appreciatively. “I must thank you all for your hard work, gentlemen. It’s because of your individual skills and expertise that we’ve made such a good team. I’m sure that Sir James will agree with me.”

  Sir James Erskine who, as commentator for the Tattoo, had been invited to sit in on the meeting, nodded his head in agreement, as they packed up and moved towards the door.

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed one of the committee. “The mist is still hanging around! Let’s hope the weather is a bit better when the performances begin!”

  “Early days yet, Cameron,” replied Sir James.

  “Whatever the weather,” interrupted Lord Harris, “I’m sure you’ll sail through it all magnificently, James. Isn’t this your fifth year of giving the commentary? It must be pretty nerve-wracking for you up there in the commentary box.”

  “Yes,” agreed Sir James, “I enjoy it, but I must admit that there are times when I wonder why I ever volunteered for the job. If anything goes wrong it can be a nightmare! I always have a fund of stories ready in case I have to fill in any gaps.”

  “Where are these moving walkways for the French horsemen going to be installed?” Lord Harris asked as they reached their cars.

  “For the Spahis? Round about here,” Cameron indicated, “one on either side of the esplanade. Just a few yards from the audience.”

  “Is that wise having the horses so close to the crowds?”

  “The problem is space. Customs and Excise have a team of precision marchers and their leader … what’s his name …?”

  “Dougal MacLeod, isn’t it?” frowned Lord Harris.

  “That’s it, Dougal MacLeod. Yes, well, he said that they wouldn’t have enough room if the walkways were any closer.”

  Sir James smiled wryly. “He and Colonel Jamieson almost came to blows about it, I understand. MacLeod’s always been a bit of a stickler. Actually he’s due at the distillery today to make one of his inspections so I’ll be seeing him later. I’ll mention it to him, but he isn’t the most co-operative of people.”

  “In my opinion, it would be better if we didn’t have these walkways at all!” Lord Harris muttered. “They’re too close to the audience for comfort and in my experience anything involving animals is an open invitation to disaster. Do they really need them?”

  “Well, you know the outline of the pageant,” Cameron said patiently. “The Touareg attack the desert fort and capture the women, and the Spahis want to give the impression of galloping miles across the desert to the rescue — hence the moving walkways. I understand they’re using one in France to practise on so that the horses will be used to them by the time they arrive.”

  “Hmmm!” Lord Harris was not impressed. “Hope it’s not a disaster!”

  Sir James, however, had every faith in the horsemanship of the Spahis and left the castle feeling cheerful and quite up-beat about his role in the forthcoming Festival.

  Sir James’s distillery, one of the few privately-owned distilleries in Scotland, is a high-walled, rather ugly building made from old, grey stone. Nestling unobtrusively among the lower slopes of Holyrood Park it is completely overshadowed, however, by the eye-catching grace of its more elegant neighbour, Holyrood Palace.

  As Sir James drew up in the cobbled forecourt of the distillery, his heart sank as he saw a car emblazoned with the insignia of HM Customs and Excise parked beside the office block. MacLeod had already arrived!

  The feeling of anxiety that crept over him was compounded by the strange behaviour of his secretary, who, unaccountably flustered, met him on the stair.

  “Thank goodness you’re here, Sir James,” she whispered. “I thought I’d warn you! The Excise man arrived early and there seems to be something wrong with the vats.”

  “Thank you, Janice,” he murmured, holding the door open for her. “Where is Mr MacLeod now?”

  “He’s in the waiting room, Sir. I gave him a cup of coffee.”

  “Better make me some too please, Janice,” her boss rejoined, “and ask Jamie Todd to come up as soon as he can, so that we can sort things out.”

  He walked to the waiting room where the lanky figure of Dougal MacLeod sat hunched ove
r a pocket calculator. The Excise man was a tall, hatchet-faced man with a beak of a nose and bushy, sandy eyebrows. He had eyes like gimlets that seemed strangely triumphant. Sir James felt a prickle of fear as he strode forward, nerves making his voice sound friendlier than usual.

  “Sorry I’m late, Dougal,” he said as he shook hands. “I’m just back from the castle and we stopped by the esplanade to work out where they’re going to put these walkways for the French contingent.”

  Dougal stiffened at the mention of the walkways. “I was going to mention it to you, Sir James, for that Colonel Jamieson was no help at all, at all! He did not seem to realize that we cannot be altering our routine to fit in with the French. Just a few feet, he kept saying! Even a few inches make a difference!”

  Now, as it happened, Sir James had seen the Customs and Excise’s team of precision marchers before and appreciated his argument. Dougal was not exaggerating when he said that inches mattered.

  As he ushered MacLeod to his office, Janice entered with the coffee. “Mr Todd will be up in a minute, Sir,” she said.

  “Ah, thank you, Janice,” he said, placing his cup on the coffee table. He waited for her to close the door before turning to MacLeod.

  “Now, Dougal,” he made his voice as casual as he could, “Janice mentioned something about one of the vats?”

  Dougal MacLeod smiled. It was a smile that struck terror into Sir James’s heart, for in all the time he had known him he had never seen Dougal MacLeod smile.

  The Excise man was enjoying himself. This was his moment! There was no way that Sir James was going to talk himself out of this!

  “Well, now, Sir James, I have to tell you that there is a considerable amount of whisky missing from your vats. A very considerable amount! In fact,” he remarked with elaborate casualness, “I make it nearly twenty thousand gallons.”

  Sir James, who had just taken a sip of coffee, promptly choked into his cup. “What did you say?” he gasped, getting to his feet to wipe hot coffee from his impeccably cut suit. “What did you say?”