Powerstone (15 page)

‘That was worth seeing,’ Meigle
said.

‘There are usually deer on Ben Vrackie,’
Drummond’s grin belied his age. ‘But I still get a thrill of pleasure when I
meet one.’

‘I miss the hills,’ Meigle
regretted the self-pity in his own voice. ‘I don’t get up nearly often enough.’

‘Well,
Sandy
, you’re up today.’ Drummond was
walking faster now, pulled on by the thought of the summit.

Meigle followed, wishing that
there was more opportunity for exercise in his life. He hated Jamie to show him
up so easily. ‘Nearly, James, nearly.’

Ben Vrackie was one of his
favourite hills, partly because it was so accessible from Pitlochry, partly for
the spectacular views from the top, but also because it was relatively easy to
climb. With Pitlochry one of
Scotland
’s
premier mountain resorts, kindly hands had fashioned these stone steps from
Loch Choice right up the cone to the summit plateau. If he had the power, he
would confer sainthood on the owners of these hands that enabled an elderly man
to ascend the staircase to his own particular heaven. He could still hear that
damned noise, though, distorted by the mist so only faint snatches reached him,
enough to tantalise, but not enough for him to recognise the source or
direction.

Twice Meigle thought that the mist
was thinning, but both times it returned with renewed density, so they
clambered the final hundred steps in a cover of damp greyness that blocked out
anything but the stone underfoot and the heather immediately to the side. Meigle
walked slowly, testing each foothold, more concerned with retaining his dignity
than the damage that a slip may cause.

‘It’s a shame we can’t see the
view,’ he gasped at last, halting as if to admire the mist.

‘As the old saying goes,’ Drummond
spoke as easily as if he were standing in his own garden, which, in a way, he
was. ‘If you don’t like the weather, wait a minute and it will change.’

When the steps ended there was a
muddied track that led on to the summit cairn, and only then did a slant of
wind shred the mist to open the view around them.

‘I must have seen this a hundred
times,’ Drummond said, ‘but I still can’t believe it.’

With the breath burning in his
lungs, Meigle thrust himself up the volcanic rock on which the cairn was built
and sank onto a suitably level surface. He sat there, dragging in oxygen as he
hugged his heavy walking stick to his chest. ‘That’s some view,’ he agreed.
‘It’s like half of
Scotland
is before you.’

For a full five minutes neither
man spoke as they allowed the calmness of the scene to enter them. Drummond
removed his deerstalker, as if in homage to the hills, then he addressed each
summit, caressing the Gaelic names in a personal mantra of devotion. ‘There’s Meall
an Daimh, Meall Garbh, Creag Breac, Crungie Clach, and Crungie Dubh,’ he used
his cromach as a pointer. ‘Each with her own character and shape.’ He replaced
the deerstalker on his head and pulled the rim down low. Touching Meigle’s arm,
he shifted position so he overlooked the town of
Pitlochry
that nestled in its sheltering valley, and pointed to the
west. ‘And over there is Schiehallion, queen of them all. The fairy hill of the
Caledonians.’

Meigle followed his finger,
admiring, as he had so often done, the sheer beauty of Perthshire and the
dominating lines of Schiehallion. He had travelled the world for business and
pleasure and had seen mountain ranges that could dwarf anything that
Scotland
produced, but he had experienced
nothing that could compare with the atmosphere generated by these
Highland
hills.

‘Our hills,’ he said quietly, and
allowed the old feelings to seep through.

‘Worth defending.’ Drummond leaned
on his cromach with the jut of his chin balancing the peak of his deerstalker
hat.

They relapsed into silence,
contemplating the panorama of the granite heart of
Scotland
as a kindly sun highlighted the
peaks. Somewhere beneath them a buzzard keened.

It was then that the sound began
again; a low whistling that seemed to emanate from Ben Vrackie herself.
Drummond glanced at Meigle and grinned. ‘I know it now,’ he said. ‘You wait
here and I’ll circle around.’

‘Are you not a bit old for that
sort of thing?’ Meigle asked, but Drummond laid down his cromach, jammed his
deerstalker firmer onto his head and winked.

Sliding around the base of the
rocky mound, Drummond flitted above the dizzy drop to the southwest and
vanished into a fold of ground. Watching from his seat, Meigle nearly smiled,
knowing that the Colonel was enjoying using his old military skills once more,
even although it was only to satisfy his own curiosity. Drummond could never be
in any danger on one of his native Perthshire hills. The whistling continued
for a while. When it stopped, Meigle raised his head, but a low murmur of voices
and Drummond’s distinctively genial laugh reassured him that all was well.

‘Look who I’ve found,’ Drummond
paced across the springy heather with a slender, unsmiling man at his side.

‘Morning, Kenny,’ Meigle waved his
stick. ‘I should have known that it would be you making all the noise.’

Kenny Mossman lifted a finger in
acknowledgement. Sallow faced, he carried a rucksack that seemed too large for
his sparse frame, while his thick woollen hat was pulled low over his brow. ‘I
came up here for some peace,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think it would be full of
Society men.’

‘No peace without Clan Donald,’
Drummond misquoted cheerfully. ‘And no peace with you tootling away on your
penny whistle.’

‘Penny whistle!’ Kenny gave a
baleful look. ‘You’re a bit out of touch, James. They cost a fortune now.’ He
showed the long, bronze-coloured tin whistle that he held in is hand. ‘The wife
complains when I play in the house, so I grab every opportunity I can.’ Placing
the whistle in his mouth, he blew gently, so the notes of
MacGregor’s
Gathering
sounded across the summit of the ben.

‘That’ll waken a few ghosts,’
Drummond said soberly, ‘having the MacGregors coming snooping around this area.
The locals will be checking their cattle and locking up their daughters.’

‘Not nowadays,’ Meigle commented
sourly. ‘The daughters will be tearing off their knickers and hunting for the MacGregors,’

‘Aye, the youth of today,’
Drummond shook his head. ‘Lucky buggers.’

Kenny grunted and changed to the
more modern
Highland
Cathedral
, so Meigle allowed the tune to
fade into the landscape and drifted away into the reverie that the hills often
evoked. That was one of the pleasures of the wild places; extreme exertion
followed by a near-melancholic peace that rejuvenated a body and soul drained
by city life. He allowed the hills to reenergize him, for he sensed that he
might need all his strength for the forthcoming conference.

‘Up there,’ and when Drummond
pointed skyward, Meigle followed his finger. At first he saw nothing, and then
made out a distant speck that gradually grew in size as it descended.

‘Another buzzard,’ Meigle said.

‘No; that’s a golden eagle.’
Drummond spoke softly. ‘You don’t see many of those around here.’

They watched the eagle for a long
five minutes, admiring the immense wingspan and the ease with which it
dominated the sky. There were no other birds visible now, even the buzzard
having given way to the eagle.

‘It’s patrolling its territory,’
Drummond said, ‘searching for food.’

‘There’s a nice wee chippy in Pitlochry,’
Kenny said, then closed his mouth as his attempt at humour fell flat. ‘It’s
coming down.’

The eagle swooped so close
overhead that its shadow flickered over them, and Kenny involuntarily ducked,
but then it regained a little height and hovered on an up-draught of air just
fifty yards off the hill.

‘It’s watching that deer,’ Kenny
said softly. He gestured with his whistle. ‘Over there.’

Meigle watched as the eagle rose
slightly higher, its wingtips quivering, before diving down upon the young stag
that they had passed on the ascent. The stag ran a few steps and then tossed
its head as if attempting to fend off the attack with its immature antlers.

‘Christ,’ Kenny blasphemed.
‘They’re going to fight. I’ve never seen that before.’

‘Like I said,’ Drummond spoke
quietly. ‘The eagle is after food. It’s testing the deer, seeing how vulnerable
it is. If it’s weak, the eagle will try and drive it over the edge so it can
feed its chicks with the dead body.’

‘And I thought the Scottish
countryside was a quiet place,’ Kenny said. ‘That’s evil.’

‘That’s nature. The eagle has a
responsibility; it must care for its young.’ Drummond rested his chin on the
crook of his cromach. ‘As we must care for the Clach-bhuai. It’s a protector as
well as a predator.’

They watched the drama unfold as
the eagle withdrew and dived again, beak open and talons outspread as it used
its great wings to try and panic the deer over the edge. Just when it seemed as
if it would strike, the eagle swooped upward, calling harshly. Without making
contact, it drove the stag ever nearer to the lip of the summit, pushing it
toward the sheer drop. The stag retaliated with its antlers, ducking its head
as it retreated.

‘Only another few assaults and the
deer’s gone,’ Meigle said. He felt an unaccountable insignificance, for however
powerful he was in the business world of
Edinburgh
, here was a life and death struggle between two dominant
animals, neither of which cared anything for his existence. He watched as the
eagle made a final sortie, screamed a last challenge and the deer broke, but
instead of tumbling down the cliff, it jinked forward, its antlers nearly
grazing the outstretched talons of the eagle, and trotted into a gully. Brown
heather shrubs shielded the animal from their view.

‘Trust the
red deer
to know its own territory,’
Drummond sounded quite relieved. ‘It’s safe now; the eagle can’t reach it
there.’

Meigle nodded. He watched as the
eagle attacked again, its beak wide with frustration, and then it spiralled
upward, screaming its harsh challenge to any other bird that dared intrude on
its air space. Two creatures, each supreme in their own environment, each
destined to dominance, meeting on the border between land and air. It had been
an elemental encounter, with neither loser nor victor, and he had been a mute
observer. But now he must be prepared to take charge again, to take
responsibility for his own affairs.

‘So the eagle’s chicks might go
hungry,’ he said quietly. ‘We had better learn that lesson, and ensure the safety
of the Clach-bhuai. Whatever method we have to adopt.’ He looked over to Kenny.
‘We might have to call on your family expertise, if that’s all right?’

Kenny shrugged. ‘That’s what we’re
here for. Just say the word.’

The sound of voices broke his reverie
as a party of walkers clambered up the steps.

‘Time to return,’ Meigle decided.
Up here with a slight wind skiffing the mist and the rock gleaming wet beneath
him, all the business worries of
Edinburgh
seemed insubstantial. Balance sheets and interest rates,
international deadlines and self-important clients all thinned into nothingness
beside the eternal presence of the mountains. When companies and banks
vanished, these hills would still be standing, unemotional, solid, seemingly
serene yet home to more drama than existed in any company take over or
financial crash. The hills were the heritage of every person of Scottish
descent; it was
Scotland
’s duty to preserve them, as it
was his duty to guard the Clach-bhuai.

A group of walkers clattered onto
the summit, exclaiming at the view as their garish coats contrasted with the
subtle shades of Perthshire. One man plumped down beside the summit cairn and
unfolded a map, while a woman produced a plastic packet of sandwiches. Their
loud voices chased the peace from the hills.

‘The Society will soon be
arriving,’ Meigle said. ‘We’d better be there for them.’ He nodded to Drummond.
‘I’m looking forward to meeting your Andrew again.’

Drummond nodded. ‘I have not told
him much,’ he said, jogging down the path. He waited for Meigle to catch up.
‘Just that it’s a family tradition that he has to attend.’

‘Nicely put.’ His time at the
summit of Ben Vrackie had strengthened Meigle for the descent so he negotiated
the steps with more ease. Although his knees complained at every jolt, he kept
pace for pace with Drummond all the way back to Loch Choice. For all his
apparent lack of muscle, Kenny had no difficulty in holding his position. After
stopping to slide his whistle between the straps across the front of his pack,
he caught up within a few dozen paces.

‘What’s this all about,
Sandy
? I’ve never been to a full
Society meeting before.’

‘I’ve never held one before,’ Meigle
said. ‘But you’ll know soon enough.’ He halted to rub at his left knee. ‘I’m getting
too damned old for all this.’