by Paul Finch
But when they reached the tent, there were no obvious means of access.
There were lots of zips, mainly at its corners, but no doorway either front or back. This was partly because it looked homemade, a patchwork thing constructed out of disparate sheets of fabric cannibalised from other tents. It was sturdy enough-it bellied in the wind, quivered to the hammering rain-but its guy ropes were taut, its pegs deeply embedded, holding it upright. And yet it was old. Its actual colour was something like brown or tan, but up close they saw it was covered in green mould. On top of that, its corners were frayed, the bits of metal framework this revealed coated with rust.
Phil was so surprised that for a few seconds he forgot how cold and wet he was. "How long has this been here, I wonder?"
"A while," Sarah said, noting the cotton canvas fabric and thinking she hadn't seen a tent made from anything other than nylon or polyweave for quite a few years. And what about the metal poles? Most campers these days would opt for shock-corded fibreglass.
"Hello?" she said aloud, suspecting there would be no response.
There wasn't.
"No tea then," Phil said glumly. "At least that means there'll be plenty room inside."
But he was wrong.
****
They gained entry by unzipping the flap on the leeward side. The zip itself was old and gummy, and Phil had to work it hard to push it just to half its height. They stooped through the narrow gap into a green-tinged, mildew-scented gloom. The first surprise was that the tent wasn't double-skinned, which meant it would offer little protection; rain was filtering in at various points. The second was that it had no groundsheet; its floor was rotted, trampled vegetation.
The third was that three figures occupied it.
All standing in a silent row.
Phil and Sarah froze, mouths agape.
They were side-on to the motionless shapes, none of who were actually distinguishable because they were covered by crumpled polythene sheets. But even in the dimness of the tent, it could be seen that the one at the far end was about six feet tall and of solid, heavy build, while the one in the middle was somewhat shorter, about five and a half feet, and the one at the nearest end shorter still, no more than two and a half. Still they didn't move-though that was hardly surprising. Even before Phil stepped forward and tore away the sheeting, it was obvious they weren't real figures; just crude, granite effigies.
Sarah yanked back her hood. "What the heck is this?"
Phil pulled his hood down too, equally bemused by the objects-which were actually little more than monoliths; they had no discernible features at all, let alone anything resembling humanity. It now struck him as weird that he'd even thought they were 'figures' in the first place. "All that's left of a stone circle… I guess."
"Inside a tent?"
He shrugged. "Someone's little joke maybe? Or perhaps these things are valuable?"
"What… they've been here ten thousand years and suddenly Historic Scotland's got jittery about erosion?"
"Hang on, whoa… I know what this is!" Phil's bearded face broke into a grin.
Fleetingly he forgot the wind gusting through the aged tent, the rain drumming above their heads. He sidled around the three granite forms. That was all they were-lumps of rock. But on closer inspection, maybe he could identify the outlines of heads and shoulders. And weren't some differences between them detectable? For example, while the first figure was tall and straight, was it pure imagination that the second had a more feminine shape? The diminutive third figure wasn't just shorter than the other two, but much narrower as well, as though everything was in proportion-as though it was supposed to be a child.
"Okay…?" Sarah said, loosening her straps. She wasn't hugely interested under these circumstances, but Phil lectured in Anthropology at Birkbeck, so she supposed he ought to know what he was talking about when it came to ancient artefacts.
"Sarah… meet the Bodach-he's the father." Phil clapped the first figure on its 'shoulder', before moving to the second. "Meet the Cailleach, the mum." He moved to the third. "And last but not least, say hello to this little one, the Nighean. And this isn't just any old tent, by the way. This is the Tigh na Cailliche, or 'House of the Hag'… and we are honoured to be inside it."
"Yeah, I feel greatly honoured." Sarah shook out her wet hair, then dumped her pack on top of the Cailleach's head and rummaged through it for a towel and her reserve clothing. "Do you want to give me all that again… in English?"
"It's a type of shrine." Phil hunkered down to go through his own gear. "Neolithic in origin. There are several of these up in the Highlands, though the most famous one is a few miles southeast of here… Glen Lyon in Perth and Kinross."
Sarah stripped her waterproofs off. "So no-one's going to come and chuck us out?"
"No one's likely to come up here until May at the earliest, I'd say," he replied. "They're a bit of a mystery, these things. The names come from Celtic myth, but these effigies are likely to be much older. They probably represent some prehistoric cult… we don't know for sure. What normally happens is the local crofters or shepherds erect a shelter for them during the winter months, and come and take it down again in late spring. It's like performing a service, which they hope will grant them good pasturage, tolerable weather and such. It's a time-honoured tradition. Goes back to the year dot. But I've never seen it in action before."
"Good." Sarah nodded as she removed her soaked clothes. "And this Cailleach lady's not going to get jealous… me in the nuddy while her husband's here?"
"Well…" Phil watched as she removed her bra and knickers; her tight, pale body goose-pimpled in the chill gloom. "I might."
She chuckled but without humour as she squatted naked to go through her spares.
He glanced at the crude, emotionless forms as they silently watched her. Gazed at their rugged granite faces; the ancientness of them, the coldness of them. There was something voyeuristic about this situation, he realised. But then this was their house; they could hardly be faulted. Oblivious to all this, Sarah climbed into some dry underwear and a fresh pair of corduroys and a plaid shirt. She buttoned up and spread her waterproofs on top of the stone figures to dry them. "Aren't you going to get changed too? You'll catch your death."
He nodded and undressed.
"Doesn't sound like this Tigh na… what do you call it…?"
"Tigh na Cailliche."
"Doesn't sound like this Tigh na Cailliche is giving the local farmers much in the way of tolerable weather this spring."
"No," he agreed, listening to the thuds of the rain.
She handed him the towel and he rubbed his hair.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I mean… for getting us into this mess."
He appraised her as he climbed into his dry clothes. "I'm the one who neglected to bring a compass or map, remember?"
"I mean bringing us up here to the Highlands."
"No one could have expected weather this severe in April."
"I just… wanted to get away from it all. As far as I could."
"We all feel like running from time to time, love."
"On the subject of which… what do we do next?"
Phil pondered that, and glanced at his watch. It was almost seven o'clock, which meant it would soon be getting dark. Once night fell, the mountain temperatures would plummet. If the rain became snow, they'd be in real danger. They could still, at a push, take the chance of remaining here in this ready-made shelter. They had their bivi-bags, extra supplies of high energy food, and the vacuum flask still contained a little hot coffee. But he wasn't overly keen. If they were severely hypothermic by morning, they wouldn't necessarily be able to move on. And it wasn't like anyone was coming looking for them, because no one even knew they were here. An image entered his head of some local shepherd arriving to take the shelter down as spring at last struck this desolate upland, only to find their withered corpses frozen to these silent, stone guardians.
He glanced around at the Ca
illeach and her family.
Evening was descending, and despite their proximity, they were little more now than dim outlines. So many words had been written over the years to describe these oblique sentinels dotted across Britain's ageless landscapes: mysterious; unknowable; inscrutable; enigmatic - oddly, they were all terms you would normally apply to something sentient.
"What's the matter?" Sarah asked.
"Nothing… let's make an inventory, eh?"
They spent the next five minutes going through their gear, but Phil had to crack a glow-stick so they could see what they were doing. They had all the usual survival stuff-whistles, a first-aid kit, windproof matches-but nothing that would help them descend the mountain any quicker. Several times he looked over his shoulder at the three featureless forms, now tinged a lurid scarlet in the chemical glow. In some ways the menacing air this lent them was quite appropriate. The Tigh na Cailliche was no gimmick or folly. Such sacred places as this were still venerated, and specifically located in isolated spots to avoid the attention of gawping non-believers, whose presence could be held profane. He might as well admit it to himself; he didn't want to be enclosed in here all night-in the cloying darkness, hearing only the soulless drone of the wind, sensing those tall disapproving shadows lowering over him.
"I think we should move on," he said. "Keep going downhill. Before it gets too late."
Sarah looked wearied by the mere prospect, but had enough experience to know this was a reasonable idea. It might seem risky giving up this shelter, but they weren't actually so high up-Meith Bheinn rose to something like two thousand feet above sea level, and they weren't even half way to the top of it. It really shouldn't be that difficult descending.
So they packed everything up, pulling on fresh pairs of thermal socks, and re-donning their boots. These were still wet, and their waterproofs felt damp as well, the combined chill immediately leaching into their bones. But there was always going to be some level of discomfort on an expedition like this. To compensate, they each gobbled down several handfuls of nuts and raisins, and took a last swig of coffee.
"Just keep heading downhill," Phil said again. "Whatever we see below us-woods, open grassland-just keep going. Speed is the essence, but obviously watch your footing."
Even as he spoke, the shrieks of the wind rose to a howling crescendo, the rain gushing through the rents in the corners, the structure shuddering, flapping.
"Doesn't matter how fast we go, we'll still get drenched," Sarah said. "We'll be in exactly the same boat again."
"Yeah, but we've rested a little, and refuelled."
"You sure we're not just better seeing the night through here?"
"Damn sure," he said, throwing the grimy polythene back over the permanent occupants of the place.
"Let's at least opt for a little extra protection," she suggested. "Take this tent apart. Use the material to make capes… give ourselves a few extra layers?"
Phil could think of several immediate reasons why that was a bad idea-but none he would give voice to. Besides, what Sarah said was true. They still had an unknown distance ahead, and their new dry clothing would not hold out for long. Thus, as soon as they stepped out into the tumult, they started loosening ties and yanking zips. The shelter had been built to resist the Highland winter, but with some brief, determined fiddling they were able to free several sheets of mouldy but still largely waterproofed canvas, fashion them into massive hooded cloaks, and set off down the slope.
The temperature was noticeably dropping, but despite diminishing daylight and blasts of biting sleet, which coated them in a limpid, icy skin, it seemed as if they'd made the correct decision. They felt fresher and stronger, and covered the downhill gradient quickly and efficiently. Phil was also glad to be away from the Tigh na Cailliche. He'd initially been interested to stumble on it; it was certainly worth a diary note-but the longer they'd lingered there, the more discomfited he'd felt. He couldn't attempt to explain why; he wouldn't attempt to. He didn't give credence to fairy tales, not even the old and venerable variety. He glanced back to try and judge how far they had now come-and saw a blurred trio of shapes; the lumpish outlines of the three stones defined on the darkening, bruise-patterned sky. They were less distant than he'd expected, and no longer covered by canvas. The obvious explanation was that the remainder of the tent had collapsed, and the polythene covers had blown away. Some shepherd or crofter wasn't going to be happy come May, but any concerns Phil had for that were drowned by Sarah's sudden enthusiastic shouts.
The gusting veils of rain had broken apart and at last they had a clear vision of the landscape below. Immediately to their left, at a diagonal angle to the direction they were taking but well within walking distance, foam-capped waves drove in furious flurries along the metal-grey surface of Loch Morar.
****
"I'm surprised you can see those three stones all the way from here," Sarah said.
Phil had just come down from the pine-panelled bathroom in a towelling robe, and was sipping brandy by the French windows. Beyond these, a lush lawn stretched across the rolling headland, some eighty yards to the cottage's private landing-a timber jetty, at the end of which a small outboard rode at its mooring. Darkness had fallen, but the storm clouds had cleared and the moon was up, silver ribbons sparkling on the surging waters of the loch. At this proximity, Morar looked a fearsome beast indeed, as well it ought to. It was twelve miles long after all, a mile wide, and at least a thousand feet deep.
Slowly however, her words sank into his consciousness.
Sarah was also in a bathrobe, but standing by the bay window at the other end of the lounge. He walked stiffly over to her. "What three stones?"
"You know… the ones under that tent."
"You can't possibly see them from here," he said. "We came half way round the mountain getting back down."
"Up there." She pointed.
The view at the front of the cottage was no less dramatic than the one at its rear. Beside the small, neatly hedged garden, a gravel drive swept to an iron gate that was large enough to belong on a farm. On the other side of that, the rugged peat moors rose steeply towards Meith Bheinn, though the main bulk of the massif stood right of this position, blotting out almost the entirety of the star-lit sky. Sarah was pointing to one of its foothills. As if to emphasise this, the moon hovered there directly, a radiant saucer perched on the black line of the ridge.
Despite this, Phil could see no stones silhouetted.
"You must have been mistaken," he said.
She shrugged, removing her towel turban and shaking her damp locks. "Maybe."
"Seriously… you thought you saw the Tigh na Cailliche all the way from here?"
"Like you say, I must've been mistaken."
He glanced back to the distant ridge, but nothing out of the ordinary was visible.
Sarah crossed the room to the granite hearth, knelt on the rug in front of its wood-burning stove and commenced drying her hair. "Sorry about that stuff on the mountain. When I was rabbiting, I mean. About Michaela."
"Don't worry about it," he said, still distracted.
"I guess I just need to accept that she's gone."
He glanced around. "Sarah, she isn't gone."
"I don't mean gone… exactly." She gazed into the flames. "Look, I'm just sorry I came over like a headcase up there, when you needed a lot more from me. Why don't we put it to the back of our minds, eh? That's what we came to Scotland for."
"Sure."
It had been very uncharacteristic of her to suddenly get so uptight. But he ought to cut her some slack, he supposed. It wasn't just Michaela's recent, foul-mouthed response to their refusal to give her the down payment-a couple of grand, no less!-for a flat of her own; nor her follow-up decision to leave home and go and live rent-free with the Parasite in a South London squat. This whole business of their daughter's 'adjustment to adulthood' had been a slow-dripping poison, mainly because as a tot she'd been so unfeasibly delightful. Blonde and pr
etty, like her mum. And so eager to please. Tidying her bedroom without needing to be told, diligent and hard working at school. At junior school, certainly. It was part-way through middle school where that toxic teen arrogance had first begun to manifest, followed in short order by the "let's party" persona that would result in her failing most of her exams. It almost brought Phil to tears when he considered what had been lost, never mind the insults she'd thrown at him personally: at the age of fifteen accusing him of never taking her on "proper holidays" because he couldn't swim- "a bloke of your age… it's pathetic!"-or how about two weeks ago, when she'd retorted to his patient advice to think twice before decamping with Shozzer by calling him "a middle class twat!" But none of that could be anything to the hurt felt by a mother who'd literally just had a door slammed in her face. There was always that special connection between mother and child, which went far beyond love, care, coddling. It was the solace and spiritual security they gave each other; the mother protecting and nurturing, the child embodying a reason for the mother to live, that far surpassed the purely biological.
When that tie was brutally shattered… well, it was a miracle Sarah had resisted the shock as long as she had. She was an emotional toughie; she'd have tried to deal with it internally, tried to avoid getting upset. But it was hardly abnormal that she'd eventually failed. At least she was more her familiar self now. During the final couple of miles descending the mountainside, buffeted by hurricane winds, the rain falling over them in sheets (thank God they'd shrouded themselves in that old tent fabric) her old strength and fortitude had come back to the fore. She'd marched downhill with speed, energy and determination. She'd even displayed flashes of humour, soberly advising him to save his breath and spare her ears when he'd started spouting King Lear, squealing with laughter when a shaggy Highland bullock had loomed out of the murk.