Not Far From Aviemore

by Michael Reuel

VI

  Gemmology

  Morning arrived with a gathering of forces poised to have their own say on an uncertain destiny. A cryptic sunshine blended with shadows of cloud, waters hovering awkwardly overhead as an unrealised holy judgement. All participants were present in great depth but meandered drunkenly as they assembled, all shades and colours irresolute.

  If Adam’s surroundings were failing to decide upon their tone and appearance then at least his brain did not feel out of kilter with the environment, for once again the Hag and her accomplice had visited him in the night and an unsolicited burglary had commenced.

  At no point in his life had the experience become bearable and, however much sleep he achieved afterwards, he woke with his nerves battered and on edge. Sudden noises would cause him to jump and if ever he had to put pen to paper onlookers might notice his fingers shake as someone whose cigarette or caffeine habit had taken too much out of them.

  Once his demeanour had been given time to calm he suspected the attack would further his resolve to the spiritual chaos he was staking his bets on, but initially his enthusiasm for the expedition, together with his reminiscences of Scotland, suffered a blow at the discovery that he had brought his demons along with him.

  Even if he could attempt to fool himself that the ordeal had lost its potency, it emerged that the Hag was not tired of finding new ways to disrupt his stay in God’s kingdom. Originally he had expected to stay two nights in Newtonmore, but had kept his options open with the inn owner by telling him it was likely to be only one. Now with his stay so quickly sullied by the Hag’s emergence, the one certainty in his mind upon leaving was that he would continue immediately to Aviemore and so on to the loneliness of Ben Macdui, but until speaking to the owner on his way out he had no idea the decision had already been made for him anyway.

  Thanking him for the room, Adam at first failed to pay any attention to the dour expression that greeted him and was even halfway out of the door when the response, ‘I did tell you not to bring guests into the rooms,’ stopped him. Confused, Adam told him he didn’t have any guests only for the owner to respond, ‘Is that so? I guess queers must be louder when they’re doing it.’

  ‘What!’ Adam had exclaimed, astounded.

  ‘We’ve had two complaints – that’s two too many lover boy.’

  As wound up as he was, Adam was about to respond with some insults of his own for what on earth the man was implying, regardless of the rottweiler that looked up at him from over the counter. It was just then that he caught sight of a third party in the shape of two middle-aged ladies. They seemed to be making their way towards the restaurant but had stopped to look him up and down in the same way as a father might a youth that had impregnated his beloved daughter before she was of age or in wedlock. Clearly this was the source of at least one, if not both, complaints and he decided to make his getaway instead rather than stirring their distaste any further – not that their scorn at the sight of a homosexual was anything close to acceptable in this day and age.

  After that he was irritated by the living as well as the dead and left without an ounce of the cool-headedness with which he had wanted to begin his fieldwork. Usually thick-skinned to insults, something wholly unusual about the entire incident meant he was unable to speedily brush the shame off. Had occupants of the neighbouring rooms really overheard the Hag’s attack or were their complaints just some bizarre mistake? Never had anyone claimed to hear strange sounds coming from his room before, but the suggestion of voluminous homosexual activity seemed too obvious to dismiss. Was this some cruel twist of the Hag’s will that meant others could indeed listen in to his humiliation?, and if so what would they have made of the manic cackling that to him always seemed to drown out whatever bumping and grinding was taking place? Could it be possible the Hag’s drawl was still for his benefit alone and, regardless, what on earth had they heard to conclude the sexual activity taking place was not of the male and female kind that he would have preferred? Even more disturbingly – once the practical questions of overhearing a supernatural rape were satisfied – did this fresh twist to the nature of the attacks mean that his enemies were on to him and his expedition was not secret beyond paradigm? Having just arrived, the coincidence seemed too hard to dismiss. Was the Hag directly challenging his attempt to fight back, or could he assume a more positive interpretation that their control over him, as a compass experiencing magnetic interference, was already shaken in some way?

  These were all questions he was unable to make any ground on. It left him wondering as to the wisdom of seeking out more of them, but that was now the task in hand. Ben Macdui was the chief destination of course, but he saw no advantage in attacking the drawbridge before assessing the terrain. Big Grey Man activity might have a notoriety all of its own but in taking a wider view of the landscape and all the unusual events folklore tells to have occurred, it becomes clear the Cairngorms boast a great depth of magic and mystery, as indeed do most of the Celtic regions of Britain and Ireland.

  The day’s task was to visit as many places of unusual reputation as possible. He did not suppose the legends of the Highlands would come crawling up out of the ground to meet him, but he wanted to get a feel for the places that myth became tied to, that inspired the imagination of folk long gone, or else once held something genuinely unexplainable to those who visited.

  His research had put him in touch with ghost stories that even the Internet had not bothered to record in some shallow and clumsy way. There were many to choose from and too many to record here but, for those with a passing interest, I give those that Adam felt the keenest affinity with as, from his Newtonmore base to his next boarding in the town of Aviemore, there was an entire host of Underworld activity to awaken.

  He was almost tempted to avoid the first curiosity on his list, however, for it concerned another old hag. The distinctive three-summit mountain known as Ben a’ Ghlo, a short distance from Newtonmore was, according to local folklore, home to a mountain harpy that threatened passers by with dire warnings on going near the mountains again, as well as demanding favours to be brought by any mortals who wished to avoid dire consequences. Although Adam had arrived to instigate a clash of spiritual forces, for some reason he imagined unhinged old biddies more likely to get on than act territorial and so, although treating his own spiritual well-being with kids’ gloves was not a priority on this trip, the idea of inviting another hag into his life was an easy path to swerve. As picturesque and mysterious as the distinctive three peaks were in the morning light, there was something ominous about them that made him wonder as to how sensible marking his first night’s stay in close proximity to such a power source had been. He did not walk very far along its footpath before returning to the road; the hag of Ben a’ Ghlo’s warnings had seen off another.

  The next destination was blessed with far more charm; the White Lady of Glentruim is said to haunt an old rowan tree beside a bridge on the glen road. Perhaps her mortal self fell there, who knows when, and her soul continued to haunt the spot, for dogs would howl mournfully when passing by the location and local wildlife is said to avoid the site. The rowan tree has long since fallen, however, and who knows maybe released the White Lady from that haunting, or else caused the spirit to lose her way. Upon passing by the spot Adam felt his heart uplifted and enjoyed taking in a plethora of birdsong, even seeing his first red squirrel in the trees above the spot where folk once said no creature would approach.

  Heading north again, but in walking distance this time, was the next mystery of the day; the curious case of the Leum na Feinne, or the Leap of the Feinne, is a ravine that seems to have been an epicentre for witch activity and supernatural occurrences to many notable figures. The folk tales and parables that could be mentioned here are many and confused, involving ghost dogs, feline-related superstition and even shape-shifting. Tempting to dismiss such tales it might be, but the Leum makes the claim to at least one notable death: Walter Comyn – an important member of the family
who were the leading rivals of Robert the Bruce to the throne of Scotland in the thirteenth century (a name that, along with all Highland clan names, needs no introduction in these parts) – was said to have been torn to pieces there and not by human hands – though tongues differ as to the beasts that were responsible for the slaughter.

  Further into the heart of the Cairngorm National Park, Adam stopped for tea in sight of the Banchor Mill – or at least of its ruins – itself bewitched and cursed with the tragedies of the sons and daughters who had lost their limbs and lives there. Though in truth it was only something to look at while he gained sustenance before moving on to the Loch Gynak, in which he was far more interested.

  Loch Ness might have a water horse, but Loch Gynak boasts the presence of the Devil himself. Locals avoid the loch, finding it to be a place of death to any creature not associated with evil. It is said the Devil once struck a bargain – one can only suspect for the mortal soul of the man in question – to trade a man’s eyes for eyes of burning red hot lead. Perhaps this is a darker place than Ben Macdui itself. The loch is found nestled into the surrounding Monadhliath mountains and surrounded by protected square pockets of evergreen but mostly by deforested slopes that seem bare in comparison regardless of what ferns, shrubs and branches have taken the place of glades of yore. Although a lone house bordering the evergreen was just about visible, Adam did not feel he had ever stood in as quiet or deserted a place anywhere in Britain or Ireland. No boats, yachts, or fishermen lingered, no walkers could be seen, muted bird song and scant impression of any creature scurrying about the undergrowth. A person could rest at Loch Gynak and forget their mind completely, its emptiness being so dense and seeming too extreme to harbour the therapeutic benefits of solitary and respite. Adam thought it beautiful in many ways, but reflected his mental state might be vulnerable to such a place even if only through its own imaginings. He thought he could let himself weep uncontrollably for no apparent reason and felt as if his mind was slipping away via some atmospheric tool that neurochemistry had not yet encountered. On this he drew no conclusions but decided it would have to be thought on later as, not without urgency, he decided to leave in case his body became as drowned as his senses.

  Further north the proximity to tears lifted as if by passing through an unseen barrier and Adam came suddenly upon the less enigmatic legend of the ‘Big Donald’, or the Domhnull Mor. The Big Donald was a man of great stature, thought of as a giant in fact and so perhaps even head and shoulders above the William Wallace, but rather than spending his time looking to conquer English kings the Donald was a home keeper, a guardian of the Glenmore forests and a friend to its beasts and inhabitants so long as they treated it with the same love and affection. Fierce he could be to intruders if they showed recklessness on his land and his reputation was so respected that it was said he had the allegiance of the fairies. Even now his spirit is said to watch over the country about Loch Morlich, which his home was said to overlook from two knolls known in Scottish Gaelic as the Sithean, or Fairy Knolls.

  Under the watch of the Domhnull Mor Adam felt more comfortable and decided to take a slow walk to commit its many views to memory, as beautiful but far less oppressive than the Gynak. Besides, the walk would take him to the next echo of a forgotten folk tale that, although owing to wild speculation, could be supposed to have some commonalities with later stories that emerged as the Fear Liath Mòr phenomenon.

  Continuing north to the pass of Ryvoan a walker might chance on two distinctive mounds, or fairy knolls, known to be man-made, though if for any practical purpose other than to house the spirits of fairies, as claimed, no historian has yet attested. Fairies of Scottish folklore are characterised in a far more sinister and less breezy way than their Irish cousins, whose dancing leprechauns result in a somewhat fanciful view of Underworld spirits that beings like our final ghoul of the day might take exception to.

  The Bodach Lamh Dhiarg, said to frighten passers by about those two mounds and further north into the Abernethy Forest, is described as a grey spectre with a bloodstained hand. The name is translated loosely from the Scottish Gaelic as Red-Handed Rascal, but the rogue’s ‘grey’ qualities interested Adam understandably far more than his bloody hand. Although described more as a playful sprite than a sinister demon, the prominence of ‘grey’ as an important shade throughout Highland folklore seemed too obvious to ignore. It could be that in lands often cloaked in mist and fog the ‘grey’ inspires awe and nervousness but, if these lands were once as alive with Underworld activity as legend attests, Adam could not help wonder if the Bodach and the Big Grey Man were not kin, or else one and the same.

  No excavation has taken place on the mounds of the Sithean. Historians and archaeologists do not go hunting folk tales for the sake of their reputations and so the Fairy Mounds about which the Red-Handed Rascal once found a belonging keep their secrets for another century.

  Some might question the value of folk tales that have never made it out of the hills, but maybe these stories belong here, echoing about the mountain paths and crying out to those foolish enough to forget them.

  As for Adam himself, he had found interest in every location he visited and every myth he challenged his wits to unravel, more so upon visiting the sites than through some desktop research. He wondered to what extent spending more time or abiding there would transform his view of the world and the experience furthered his curiosity of what other unrecorded tales locals told to their children, but he realised he was in danger of losing sight of his goal and becoming a Highland enthusiast instead. As much as the valley leading away from the Pass of Ryvoan seemed to call out for his feet to walk it, he made himself leave what discoveries lay that way in order to head north, further into the park and to the slopes of Ben Macdui itself – but he did not leave without more to think on.

  Lost in his thoughts for a time, again he could not help think of Becky, for the light on the water moved not unlike her description of fingerprints smoothing over a silk mattress. The great body of water before him had no fury, no motion, but great depth as if sleeping an age until the world broke again and it could spill free over whatever crags had opened until back to the busy oceans once more.

  Far away in daydream, Adam forgot he had lost himself on its seductive reflection as he imagined what other world was hidden beneath; he thought it would be easier to slip into those still depths than into the fury of the ocean and be lost forever, the gentlest drowning free of the turmoil of tide and wave – it seemed a preferable means of leaving the world. After the travelling and the endeavour to open doors to new learning, he remembered how tired he was and that there were more ways than one to find sleep other than via the epic pursuit he had envisioned, but just then a delightful voice stirred him from waking slumber and he turned to find that he was not alone.

  ‘You’re not thinking of swimming it are you?’ it asked, and he turned to see a young redhead who could, by her build, have been still a teenager, but if so gave the impression of wisdom beyond her years. Appearing alone and without nervousness, Adam instantly had the impression the land belonged to her in a way it never could to him, or else that the elfin-like figure before him was a part of the Highlands as much as the ground he walked on and the air he breathed.

  He was at least a foot taller than the girl whose size might have seemed frail in another environment but managed to suggest both nimbleness and athleticism about the Cairngorm terrain. Her hair was a shade of deep red that Adam found stunning and her clothes he suspected were home sown, but clearly expertly woven. Since arriving in Scotland he had not heard an accent so thick and had to adjust his ears to a lyrical rhythm that Adam sensed had never been far from Highland environs and would not belong in any city without becoming slightly watered down. Rightly he guessed her accent owed more to speaking the Gaelic languages, just as Welsh intonation is a product of Welsh words not of English ones, but her voice was pleasant nevertheless and as long as he gave himself a second at the end of each se
ntence it suddenly became clear what she had indeed said.

  ‘You think I could make the other side?’ Adam responded pleasantly.

  ‘Not even halfway,’ she replied, ‘but there are many other corpses at the bottom to keep you company for eternity, some of them English ones so you’d be completely at home. I’m Clara.’

  ‘Hello Clara,’ Adam said, gently shaking the hand she held out, although her posture tempted him to kiss it instead. ‘I’m Adam.’

  ‘Adam! Such a famous name, I hope you live up to it.’

  ‘Are you from round here, Clara?’ Adam asked, wondering if he could compete with such playfulness.

  ‘I live in that direction; Aviemore,’ Adam thought she noticed his eyebrows raise with familiarity. ‘It is the closest village to Ben Macdui, the giant over yonder, but it’s past tourist season, I don’t suppose you’ll be wanting to climb it this time of year, especially with the cold and snow on its way.’

  ‘Actually I was hoping to get round to it this week. Why visit the Cairngorms and not climb its highest peak?’

  That was the first time Clara paused and he thought she was studying him for some quality, even though reading that young lady’s thoughts might be more challenging than the very Celtic myths he had spent the day contemplating.

  ‘You don’t think I should fear it do you?’

  ‘Some do, if they believe the stories.’

  ‘You don’t believe in all that do you?’

  Rather than respond to this directly, Clara gave a slight smile before, he guessed, purposely leaving the subject of the Fear Liath Mòr unexplored.

  ‘I have something for you, Adam,’ she told him, there was a enticing glint in her eyes but Adam knew she was only pretending to flirt with him and enjoying it, ‘if you want it that is.’

  ‘What could you possibly have for me?’ he asked, playing along.

  ‘It’s in my pocket,’ Clara replied, then seductively slipped her hand into her front jacket pocket; Adam watched fascinated by the character before him, wondering if she seemed as exceptional to local folk as she did to him. From her pocket Clara then brought forth a delicate cloth, material similar to that in which a person might keep a pair of glasses, but when she draped the cloth over her arm and opened its folds the contents were instead revealed as three stones, each one of its own colour and texture. In response Adam gave in and shook his head, admitting he had no play to make in her mysterious game.

  ‘You believe in curses?’ she asked him, holding off from explaining why she was showing him those three stones, but repressing her playful attitude in order to be taken seriously.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, and this time it was Clara’s demeanour that was caught unprepared when his answer came without doubt, contemplation or sarcasm, but she regained herself just as speedily and proceeded to name the stones she held before her.

  ‘Malachite, Sodalite and Anthracite,’ she told him, pointing at each in turn, she then took hold of the deep green, emerald Malachite stone and held it up for him to take. ‘Those who pay heed to the spiritual properties of earthly substances will tell you the Malachite can be used for protection. It is also a stone of transformation and a healing stone… but that’s not why I’m giving it you.’

  Adam studied the stone she handed to him, half expecting its touch to cause something magical to occur, just as his first sustained human interaction for several days seemed to be.

  ‘You shouldn’t have,’ was all he could think to say.

  ‘Avoid the Anthracite,’ she told him, pointing to the coal-like black stone of the three, ‘it’s not evil as nervous folk might think, just a warning’.

  ‘But I have nothing to give you in return,’ he replied.

  ‘Such a shame,’ Clara responded and once again the teasing glint had returned to her expression, just as quickly as the intensity had taken over upon revealing the stones. Without another word, she then turned and began to walk back from wherever she had came, her eyes lingering cheekily upon Adam for as long as her posture allowed before disappearing into the trees that lined the loch. Watching after her, he could not help wonder whether she needed a path to find her way back or knew her own secret route where she petted the wild deer and whispered to the birds along the way.

  For a while he stood still in thought, not quite understanding what had just happened as he studied the Malachite he had been gifted. He failed to understand why Clara would find him of interest, but with determination he then reminded himself why he had undertaken his expedition. If he was going to stare dumbstruck at every unexplained mystery that came his way then he might spend a lot of time staring and not discovering, or else become a willing victim to anything hostile that wished to creep up on him. Bizarre the encounter had been, but it was the catalyst he had been waiting for to move on to the next stage of his investigation. He sensed no malice or tomfoolery in Clara’s attitude and did not believe there were a gang of locals hiding in the trees and sniggering at the tourist they were looking to make a fool of. The question to answer was whether or not she was a deluded fantasist with a warped mind, but she had come across as intelligent and her relaxed humour suggested that she partly saw their conversation in as ridiculous a light as he.

  Maybe the land was drawing him in to its story, but an answer would have to wait and he suspected he would meet with her again if Aviemore was his destination.

  Time to move on and find the man named Affleck White.

  Taking back to the road, it was not back to Newtonmore this time, but to Aviemore itself and what he imagined to be the last homely house before whatever trepidation he faced on the summit of Ben Macdui.

  The thought was now tantalising, the mountain less unreal and distant somehow after the unusual meeting, as if the idea of setting foot there had been made real rather than restricted to his imagination. Conflict felt near and imminent, but for the time he was excited not scared, still fearing folly and emptiness more than any rascal or demon.

  Perhaps such a mindset can be blamed for what then happened – or else we can speculate there was nothing Adam could have actually done after all but, nevertheless, he considered himself to have failed in his own sound advice on how to prepare for times of danger. Such advice, formed as part of his own personal philosophy on existence, stemmed from the death of his cat when he was fifteen years old. Axl had often been seen crossing the road casually regardless of the speed of oncoming vehicles; his mother had always been worried that one day they would find the ginger tom dead but Adam noted how the cat always quickened his pace enough to reach the other side safely. Agonising to watch it may have been, but Adam calmed himself with the belief that Axl knew exactly what he was doing, even if his mind worked by margins a human’s would find unbearable. Surprised then he was to discover that playful mog lying by the side of the road one evening, still warm but with blood running from his mouth and no longer breathing. Minutes or seconds away from witnessing Axl’s last moments, finding him there was an affront to his logic, but it would seem to be obvious what had happened and that Adam’s earlier faith in the cat’s ability to avoid traffic was poorly placed.

  That one should never presume wisdom might be the lesson to have taken from his pet’s death, but it turned out there was a deeper lesson to learn that had far more to do with the workings of circumstance. Soon he found out that one of his neighbours had the misfortune of seeing the incident and was able to reveal that Axl’s on-road knowledge had not in fact let him down; the cat had only ran into the road because a motorbike sped suddenly round the corner – ridden along the path by a bareheaded youth as was not unheard of about the estate – and the feline had found itself with no choice but to leap into the road where, unfortunately, its ninth life was extinguished anyway.

  So it was a different lesson Adam learnt that could only be achieved through bitter experience – for the perils of life, its dangers and its evils, have been the mission of all living creatures to outwit and foil. In this task, predators like cats a
re among the most successful, refined and perfected to their task, but even predators that evolve to always land on their feet succumb to clumsy circumstance wherever it arrives in unexpected number. Axl had been alert enough, athletic enough, to avoid the wheels of the unexpected biker when danger reared its ugly head, but it was in the action of avoiding one fate that he had ended up under the wheels of another. The likelihood of such a result was one Adam sought to understand in order to further the capabilities of his own existence and he had thought deeply on the matter before his arrival. Unfortunately he would have to demand much more of himself, as he would find that his own instincts did not as then live up to the wisdom he claimed to follow – for it was a near-death experience of a similar kind to Axl’s that he was about to have.

  Driving north from Loch Morlich, Adam left his prep work behind to a setting sun, leaving the Glenmore forest park and reaching the roads that border the Rothiemurchus forest – marking his first close proximity to a place of Fear Liath Mòr activity. Rushing glades were on either side of him, hiding what otherwise would by then have been a very prominent view of the mountain that had commanded his imagination for many weeks. To his mind the arms of the trees seemed to reach purposely over the road, oppressing the space man sought to claim for his own as if in reminder that the road would soon be taken back by the forest should vehicles ever choose to journey there no longer. In his peripheral vision a different forest corridor was apparent every few feet and a part of him mourned not having the time to appreciate and explore a single one of them. Occasionally the rich and varied wildlife of the forest pours out onto the road, sometimes to its death, but happily, on this occasion, did so a distance ahead of Adam’s vehicle. He caught a brief sighting of some large mammal in the fading light, illuminated temporarily in his headlights before disappearing into the undergrowth. Longing to know what he had seen, Adam came to a stop where he judged the beast to have fled; with no other vehicle on the road he considered the decision to be of no risk to other drivers.

  His curiosity was rewarded. Not one but two small fallow deer could be seen leaping with great agility deeper into the forest, stopping every few bounds to look back before proceeding once more in a diagonal fashion, crisscrossing as if in rhythm with some enchanted woodland melody reserved for the untamed. Adam had some memories of the larger red deer, but he had never come across this slighter kind before; the sight was engrossing, but there was deeper mystery at work in Rothiemurchus that night.

  Sometimes the subtlest movement proves more unnerving than violent attack, for our instincts tell us that those with murderous intent creep up slowly rather than poisoning the air with shrill, unchecked aggression. Such a stealth attack was underway as Adam sat with a smile watching the deer vanish back into fairieland. What would have occurred had he lingered further is uncertain; doom could have been no more than a reach away and he would never have been fully aware of his peril.

  As the car’s wheels began turning he noticed movement in the corner of his vision. Previously the encroaching cloud was indiscernible from the shadow that stretched across the road from whence the deer must have fled. Deer were nervous by nature, but could it be they were fleeing from something very real, other than the headlights of the motorcar?

  Whatever the shape was did not spring instantly to mind – as with his first sighting of the deer – but its close proximity was disturbing and its size unnerved him. By then his wheels were underway of course and the presence soon out of his field of vision. Some car lengths onwards, therefore, his gaze remained fixed to the rear-view mirror to see what might come into view. Ghostly beings are known for disappearing easily from sight, not to mention tricks of the imagination, but this belonged to neither as, to his astonishment, a great shape remained occupying the space his vehicle had just left.

  There it was, his eyes had not been mistaken and it was something undoubtedly of a phenomenon his expedition was charged with locating… but what was it? He was well read on the spectre of Ben Macdui and its accompanying grey mist; here too was mist of sorts and an unknown entity within, but grey it certainly was not. The impression of physical presence was clear, but shrouded in thick, black smoke – the kind that would choke the inhabitants of a blazing house if they did not escape in time – and what lay within was of no humanoid shape, suggesting the limbs of some great beast that even the wildlife long since hunted to extinction in the land could not have accounted for.

  If challenged to explain his thoughts at that moment, Adam would not have been able to say whether fear or wonder proved to be his chief reaction, but the desire for liberation was clearly alive in him as the resulting intrigue proved strong enough to see him roll the vehicle to a stop.

  Unhurried then the unearthly mass refused to evaporate in a blink of the mind’s eye as the supernatural often conveniently does, nor did it shy at being beheld by a pair of mortal eyes. Languid and untroubled were its motions, Adam sensing no discomfort in its movements and unable to tell if the hush of the forest had felt as nervous without the sound of his car’s engine.

  He had wanted his first taste of fieldwork and the location had not disappointed, but what he had come across belonged to none of his research or imaginings. It was mystery in its purest sense, no matter how long he sat and watched its movements no conclusions or epiphanies emerged to explain it. But something did emerge from that simmering indefiniteness. Not content with attacking Adam’s understanding of the universe, the devilish presence was to make a direct assault upon his physical person, made apparent by the appearance of two flaming red eyes that burned and flickered like the torches of a baying mob.

  Sensing fury at the mortal eyes that beheld them, Adam spent no time wallowing in disbelief or cowering as men and women through the ages have at powers beyond their understanding. Praying had never aided him before and he knew more than most that his body was not sacred to attacks by the forces of darkness. To the accelerator his right foot returned, pedal to the metal in an assumption that his life, perhaps even his soul, depended on all the speed his rented vehicle was capable.

  Initially the danger seemed to have been addressed, the eyes and the mass beginning to fade in the rear-view mirror, but in answer to his getaway something even more distinctly preternatural occurred to ensure escape would not be so easy. As he had dreaded, the flaming eyeballs did not continue to fade into the darkening forest but were soon clear in pursuing him along the road, not at the gait of a fully manifested being, however, but detached from whatever had made up the ambiguous mass, flying under their own intent or else launched as some hellish missile with a target to eliminate.

  A chase ensued and Adam found an unnatural panic take over him the more the eyes gained, not helped by the speeds with which he found himself negotiating the winding roads as he sought a pace that would be enough to save him from whatever fate his pursuer had in store. Caught between one danger and another, he not only drove too fast but lost all awareness of what lay ahead, registering the approaching T-junction literally as he was passing through it. Thanks to a curving track he was able to avoid flying off the road completely and not down a hillside which would have been the last of him, but even as he mastered control of the turn the thought had time to cross his mind that if another vehicle was approaching the junction at that moment then the collision itself would see him shuffle off his mortal coil… and that is what very nearly happened.

  If Adam had arrived at the junction a split section later he would have collided with a heavy goods vehicle and most likely a certain death. Owing his life to great fortune only, his car emerged just in time to see the larger vehicle swerve. Although encountering some wheel spin in the attempt, he was able to control the momentum of his wheels, briefly aligning them with the road ahead before aiming at a mercifully convenient lay-by where he screeched to a halt. The sound of the lorry’s horn ringing in his ears – held for one extended note even as the angered driver passed him by and continued on its way – Adam realised he had stalle
d and struggled to restart the engine, still fearing the flaming eyes more than death in a ball of flames or under the wheels of the lorry. In attempting and failing at this task, he had time to glance both into the rear-view mirror and also over his shoulder. His pursuer, whatever it was, had not emerged from the forest road.

  Even with more traffic passing by, it took him a long while before he was assured nothing terrifying was poised to emerge and extend the nightmare. After an unbearable wait he allowed himself a sigh of relief before realising he was perspiring heavily and his hands were shaking.

  Though he would like to have claimed that he went coolly on his way, the truth was he spent some time with his head in his hands struggling to recover his nerves. Near-death experiences have done far more damage to people’s sanity and no doubt been handled better by some, but I am unable to offer assessment on a typical reaction to being pursued by the Devil… or something that might easily have been mistaken for Him.