Black Cairn Point (4 page)

Though they took a while to get organised, the marshmallows worked out just like Dougie had hoped, providing a distraction that allowed the tension to slowly dispel. We used sticks that were too spindly to be any good as firewood, piercing a mallow on the end and thrusting the pink and white blobs into the heat until they melted into strange shapes and their edges blackened. I threw the first one straight into my mouth, my senses dulled by Darren’s vodka, forgetting the centre would be molten hot. I scalded my tongue and the roof of my mouth, squawking like an agitated parrot until someone handed me a can of icy cold liquid to quell the stinging. I chugged down half the contents before I realised it was beer. It tasted foul. I tried to spit it out but only succeeded in spilling much of it down my top.

It took a long minute after I’d wiped myself off before I could join in with the laughter.

‘You know,’ Darren told me, a saucy leer in his eyes, ‘you’re all wet. You might as well join the topless ranks.’

‘Darren!’ Emma smacked him hard on the arm. That made me smile, though I was mostly just embarrassed.

‘I think I’ll just put a jumper on,’ I muttered. ‘It’s getting cold anyway.’

It was dark in the tent. I unzipped the doorway in one smooth motion and stepped inside. It was supposed to be a four-berth tent, but there was really only room for the double air mattress, our sleeping bags waiting side by side on top. Where the other two people were meant to go I’d no idea. I edged around the mattress to the top corner where I’d stashed my rucksack of clothes and pulled out a thick black hooded jumper. It caught in my hair, ripping out my ponytail. Impatiently, I yanked the bobble free of the last few tangles. My hair probably looked like a haystack, but hopefully it would be too dark for anyone to notice. I was too woozy to attempt to put it back up.

Back by the fire, the marshmallows were well on their way to being finished and a quiet calm was settling on our circle. I wondered what time it was – not late, I didn’t think – but when I tried to read my watch the dials jumped in and out of focus.

‘Here.’ Dougie handed something to me as I sat down; I took it before I realised what it was. ‘You didn’t finish your beer.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, my fingers curling round the can.

‘Your hair looks nice down,’ he commented. ‘I didn’t realise it was so long.’

I flushed bright red at the compliment and didn’t know what to say, so I settled for an awkward smile and took a large mouthful of beer. It tasted slightly better, I noticed. Maybe that was just because the marshmallow had burned off all my taste buds.

‘What time is it?’ Martin asked, giving me an excuse to look away.

‘Midnight,’ Darren replied, lowering his voice to give it a spooky tone. ‘The perfect time for some scary stories.’

‘And I suppose you’ve got one for us, have you?’ Martin asked, but his tone lacked the scathing quality it had before and he was smiling slightly. This seemed to be one activity he was happy to join in with.

‘I have,’ Darren beckoned with his finger. ‘But you’ll have to come closer, children. This tale can only be told in a whisper. Nothing more.’

It was melodramatic and over the top, but we obediently slid off our camping chairs and gathered closer around the flames. I was glad. Middle of summer or not, it was still Scotland and the temperature was dropping, icy air whipping in off the sea. I shivered as a gentle breeze sought out the gaps in my clothes.

‘Cold?’ Dougie asked, folding himself down onto the sand right next to me.

‘A bit,’ I admitted as Martin settled down on my other side. Darren had hunkered down across the campfire from us, Emma practically draped across his lap, both of them still shirtless. That just made me shiver all the more.

‘Here.’ Dougie chucked an arm around me and started rubbing at my upper arm. ‘I’ll warm you up.’

It was meant as nothing more than a friendly gesture, I knew, but I still tensed, shy and awkward. I managed to look in his direction long enough to offer him a tentative smile before I fixed my gaze on the flames, letting the blinding dance of white, yellow and orange dazzle me into a trance. Opposite, Darren unearthed a bottle of something else to pass around – this time a dark amber colour – before he began to speak.

‘This is a story told to me by my father, told to him when he was our age by a local who lived in these very hills. It’s the story of the Wicker Man.’

He drew out the final two words and whether it was the chill of the night, the eeriness of the inky landscape or the quick gulp from the bottle I took as he spoke – whisky, I think – I trembled involuntarily, a goose walking over my grave.

‘You all right?’ Dougie whispered to me. His breath in my ear tickled, but his concern made me feel like an idiot. I resisted the urge to move so much as an inch.

‘Just cold,’ I mumbled back.

He responded by squeezing me tighter to him, tucking my head against the warmth of his shoulder. I tried to keep my breathing even, concentrating on Darren, who was grinning wickedly, delighting in being the centre of attention.

‘Hundreds of years ago, in the Dark Ages, Pagans roamed over the land …’

‘No, they didn’t,’ Martin interjected quietly.

‘What?’ Darren snapped, dropping out of his eerie voice and breaking the spell, clearly annoyed at the interruption.

‘They were Christian in the Dark Ages,’ Martin said, straightening his glasses on his nose. ‘Pagans were more the Iron Age.’

‘Does it matter?’ Darren barked back, glaring.

‘Just saying,’ Martin muttered.

‘Anyway.’ Darren took a deep breath, swept his eyes around the circle to recapture his audience. ‘Hundreds of years ago, in the Iron Age –’ he shot Martin a glowering look; Martin nodded back with twisted satisfaction – ‘Pagans roamed over the land. Cloaked in black, they gathered in the night to worship their evil, savage gods. Minions of the devil, these spirits demanded more than just adoration. They wanted
sacrifice
!’

There was a smattering of laughter around the campfire. Darren’s voice reminded me of a children’s TV presenter, being deliciously – but incredibly melodramatically – ghoulish for the Halloween special. Darren’s lips twitched, acknowledging the ham acting, but then he frowned us all into silence before beginning again.

‘The worst of these, my friends, was a powerful wraith. It was nameless and formless, and the Pagans feared this phantom monster more than any other. Not satisfied with the quick death of a martyred virgin, her throat cut upon the stones, the wraith craved pain and torture and suffering. It craved fire.’

Beside me I heard Dougie chuckle again and out of the corner of my eye I could see Martin rolling his eyes – even Emma was gazing at Darren’s muscles rather than paying attention to the story. Darren didn’t seem to care. His gaze fixed on me and I tried to look suitably enthralled and wide-eyed with terror.

‘In order to satiate the wraith, every year the Pagans would erect a gigantic statue in its honour, made of wood and hazel strips, fashioned into the shape of a man. In the middle of this wicker man, right at the heart, would be an empty space, just big enough for a person. Now, it just so happened that a traveller was passing by the Pagans’ lands at that time. He stopped, looking for supplies and passing news. The Pagans were delighted: here was a ready-made sacrifice!’

He paused, stared round at each of us in turn, as if ramping up the tension. I swallowed my giggle.

‘One night they got the traveller drunk on the local wine. Then, once he’d passed out – for it was strong stuff – they tied his hands and feet, and imprisoned him in the wicker man. And then … then they set it on fire!’

There was a moment’s silence. No one spoke. We just waited. It was clear Darren wasn’t finished.

‘That’s not the end of the story,’ he said. ‘The traveller awoke as the flames started to take hold, as the smoke started to fill the air. He realised where he was, saw the Pagans standing round the fire chanting, robed in black with hoods pulled forward to hide their faces.’

‘How’d he know it was the same Pagans then?’ Martin muttered, but Darren carried on as if he hadn’t heard.

‘At first he tried to free himself, pushing against the confines of his wicker cage, hunting for a weakness, but the Pagans knew their business. The sacrificial statue was strong. Finally he had to face the truth: he was going to die.’ A pause; a quick flash of Darren’s teeth as he grinned devilishly. ‘And this is where it gets interesting. See, the Pagans weren’t the only ones to dabble in the dark arts. The traveller … was a Voodoo priest!’ Darren announced this with a flourish and Dougie coughed derisively beside me. I knew he wanted to correct Darren’s appalling mangling of history – even I knew Pagans were
way
before Voodoo, not to mention the fact that they originated on opposite sides of the globe – but he held his tongue. ‘He cursed the Pagans. Around his neck he kept a talisman of his faith, and as his flesh melted from his body he called to his Voodoo gods, demanding that anyone who ever set a fire in the same spot would be cursed to die a horrible death. When the fire smouldered down to ashes that melted into the sand, the curse was set in place. The next year, the Pagans once again made their sacrifice, stealing a girl from a nearby town, and each and every one of them died that night on the beach. Their bodies were swept into the sea. This sea, boys and girls, this beach. It’s cursed.’

Darren sat back, obviously pleased with himself.

‘Of course,’ Dougie chipped in, breaking the silence, ‘in the sequel the hero comes along and saves the day, freeing the villagers from the curse before snogging the virgin sacrifice senseless.’

‘Ah, you’ve seen it!’ Darren laughed before chucking a handful of seaweed across the circle at Dougie.

‘Of course we’ve seen it! Mr Crooks makes everyone in fourth year watch it in RMPS, remember? You took some serious liberties with the storyline, though!’

‘Oh yeah.’ Darren looked slightly crestfallen, to the hilarity of everyone around the circle. Except me. I hadn’t seen the film – I’d had glandular fever in fourth year and missed months of school.

‘I didn’t know there was a sequel,’ Martin said, head tipped to the side. ‘Any good?’

‘No!’ Dougie said emphatically, setting off another chorus of laughter like baying hyenas. ‘Don’t watch it, it’s bloody awful! Anyway –’ Dougie pulled his arm away from me and shifted to his knees until he towered over us – ‘you want a scary story, guys? I’ve got one that will make sure you never sleep soundly again. Because every single word is true.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Darren smirked across the circle.

‘Yeah,’ Dougie replied softly. ‘Because I hate to tell you, Darren, but there weren’t any Voodoo priests mincing about the hills of Dumfries and Galloway … but there were witches.’

‘Flying about on their broomsticks, were they?’ Darren asked derisively and Emma giggled.

Dougie just smiled. And let the silence go on. And on.

‘Witches,’ he repeated at last, his voice so quiet I had to strain to hear it over the soft sound of the water behind me and the low pops and hisses of the fire. ‘Do you know how witches get their power?’

It was a question, but none of us answered.

‘Sacrifice.’ The same word that Darren had used, but out of Dougie’s mouth it made me shudder. As if on cue, a sinister wind whipped around the campfire, making the flames snap and jump. For a moment the fire was almost extinguished entirely and we were engulfed in a shocking blanket of black. I gasped, but just as suddenly the light flared into life again, illuminating Dougie’s cheeks and jaw, leaving his eyes ghostly dark pits. The effect was frightening.

‘They practised sacrifice. If a creature could bleed, if it could feel pain, then it had the ability to provide the witches with power. They used animals sometimes, if the spell was small. But when the enemy was great, when the witches needed to delve deep into the darkness of their souls – the sacrifice would have to be human.’ Dougie smiled at us softly, but there was no warmth in it. Despite that, I found myself leaning closer towards him, drawn by the cadence of his voice, the hypnotic gleam in his eyes. ‘Witchcraft began with the Pagans. More specifically, the druids. They believed in the power of sacrifice, that through it they could commune with the gods, drink of their might. Just across that water –’ he pointed to the sea with one ghostly pale arm – ‘that’s where it happened. Because one year men from the south came, armed with weapons and soldiers, intent on taking over the Pagans’ lands. Romans. Outnumbered, outmatched, the druids fled to one of their holiest places, Ynys Dywyll. An island, rocky and bleak. It means, ‘the Dark Isle’. There they set up their altar, chose their victim. Her name was Ygraine, and she was the daughter of the lord. With the Romans gathering round, with time running out, the druids slaughtered her as a gift to their gods.

‘First, they strangled her, taking her right to the brink of death. Then, calling upon their gods, asking them to strike down the cursed army that had invaded their lands like a plague, they slit her throat and watched her blood spill out upon the stone. As the life drained out of her, the leader cut open her chest and drank directly from her heart. It’s said her spirit screamed as she watched him do it.’

Another pause. This time there were no interruptions. Dougie let the silence linger for almost a minute.

‘What happened?’ Emma finally managed to whisper.

‘The Romans stormed the island and killed them. Every single one. A mass sacrifice, the blood flowing so freely it stained the rocky ground red. And at last, at last the gods were appeased. The druids had lost their lives, but the gods let them return, as spirits, to guard the land. To haunt it.’

Dougie finished exactly as he’d started: quietly, softly. Eerily. Seconds passed but the silence drew on.

Eventually there was a tittering, then a confused bark of gasping and laughter as the tension that had gripped our little circle for the duration of Dougie’s story was dispelled. Martin’s face broke into a grin; Darren shook his head ruefully as he swigged from the bottle of booze. Emma was rubbing her arms, getting rid of imaginary goosebumps in such a way as to shove her cleavage higher up her chest, her side pressed against Darren’s.