Peter May - The Chessmen

Further down the gully, a large body of water reflected the storm in long and short flashes, as if in response to some heavenly signal lamp pulsing Morse into the night. A hidden loch in the basin of the valley.

Fin began the descent, slowly at first, each step made with care. He slipped for the first time, sliding several yards before managing to bring himself to a stop. Then back to his feet, and on, faster now, as his body weight propelled him on down the slope, pushed by the wind like a hand at his back. His torchlight flashed back and forth across the tangle of bracken and heather ahead of him, before picking out the shambles of smashed stone that formed a steep scree declivity that plunged towards the dark shapes of jagged rocks distantly below. Rainwater ran off the hill in streams and rivulets, snaking its way through the stones at his feet as he stepped on to them. He had covered only a few slithering yards before the scree shifted to the left and right of him, gathering momentum. Then like an avalanche it took his feet and swept him away, to fall helplessly down into darkness, his ears filled with the rush of falling stones. Until he struck something so hard it took his breath away. For one brief, terrifying moment, his head was filled with light, before he was taken by a darkness from which he knew there would be no return.

A flickering yellow light filtered slowly through the gauze that fogged his consciousness. It brought pain, fear, an uncontrollable shivering. Whistler’s big pale face, with its smears of black and silver whiskers, flickered too, like a light bulb at the end of its life. The gauze was smoke. A thick, choking, hot smoke that filled the air. Fin coughed as he breathed it in, a painful racking cough, and he tried to sit up. But he couldn’t. He was wrapped, as if in a cocoon, unable to move.

Three feet above him, an irregular stone roof curved away into darkness. A complex tracery of spiders’ webs hung from it in broken veils, reflecting the light of the flames that licked up through the darkness no more than eighteen inches from his face.

‘Bloody idiot!’ He heard Whistler’s voice strained through the gauze. ‘If you’re going to follow a man up into the mountains on a night when they’re forecasting a storm, you should at least come prepared.’

Fin managed to unpeel a dry tongue from the roof of his mouth. ‘You knew there would be a storm?’

Whistler showed his teeth. ‘Of course I did. I thought you would have checked that.’

Fin saw his and Whistler’s wet clothes stretched over dry stones, steam rising from them on the far side of the fire, and realized for the first time that he was naked inside his cocoon. ‘What have you wrapped me in?’

‘A couple of woollen wraps and an aluminium blanket. And keep shivering, boy. That’ll generate about two degrees centigrade an hour. The blankets’ll keep it in and you’ll reheat yourself. With a bit of luck your clothes will be just about dry by the morning.’ He leaned over and put his fingers on Fin’s forehead, his touch as light as chiffon. ‘You’ve a nasty bang on the head, though. I’ve disinfected it and dressed it, but you’d better see a professional.’

Fin could see now that Whistler was sitting cross-legged on the far side of the circle of stones which contained the burning peats that were generating both the heat and the smoke. His long black hair was still wet, and swept back in a tangle from his forehead. The jumper he had worn beneath his jacket was dry, as were jeans protected by waterproof leggings. ‘What is this place, Whistler?’

‘We’re in a wee beehive dwelling at the north end of a pretty inaccessible valley somewhere between Mealaisbhal and Brinneabhal. There’s a few of them clustered here. Not real beehives, of course. That’s just what the archaeologists call them. God knows who built them, or why. Maybe shepherds at some point for when they brought the sheep up to the high grazing. Anyway, most of them are in ruins. Just circles of stone and turf. This one I remade myself, and keep it stocked with dry peats. Just as well, eh?’

‘What the hell do you come up here for?’

‘Deer. Mountain hare.’ He laughed, then. ‘And I’ve spent quite a long time in these parts searching for the cave of swords.’

Fin frowned. ‘What swords?’

A grin of something close to embarrassment split Whistler’s face. ‘Ach, it’ll be a bloody wild goose chase, I’m sure. But I was always fascinated by the story I heard once about a man who knew these valleys like the back of his hand. Got lost one time in a fog, and fell into a hidden cave among the boulders. There were steps down into it. And inside it he found a stash of rusted old swords. Dozens of the things. He couldn’t carry them himself, but he was sure he would find his way back with friends to bring them down to the village.’ Whistler shook his head. ‘He never did. No matter how many times he looked, he couldn’t find that cave again. No one ever doubted him, though, and there was a lot of speculation about where the swords had come from and who put them there.’

‘And?’

Whistler shrugged. ‘And nothing. I never found them either. My favourite theory was that they belonged to the men of Uig who hid them from the English after the defeat of the Jacobite army at Culloden. Everything “Highland” was forbidden, including the wearing of the kilt and the bearing of arms. So if the locals hid their weapons up here, there was no way anyone would ever find them, but they’d be quickly accessible if they were ever needed.’ He laughed. ‘I’d have loved to feel the weight of those Jacobite swords in my hand, Fin. Not least because they’d have been worth a bloody fortune.’ He tipped his head to one side, casting Fin an appraising look. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Bloody awful.’

‘Good. As long as you’re feeling something you’ll be okay.’

He took a stout stick and tipped several blackened stones out from the embers of the fire on to the beaten earth floor.

‘When these have cooled enough for me to handle, we’ll wrap them into your blankets to help generate a bit more heat. Under your oxters, and at the back of your neck. God knows, you’ve no brain to speak of, but what little you have has a wee bit at its stem that regulates your internal temperature, along with your breathing and circulation. The hypothalamus. We want to keep that warm and in good working order.’ It was typical of Whistler that knowledge like that could trip off his tongue almost without thought.

Fin let his head fall to one side, still shivering, and heard the sound of the wind thundering all around the outside of this tiny stone dwelling. ‘I guess you’ve done it again,’ he said.

‘Done what, boy?’

‘Saved my life.’

Whistler roared. ‘Well,’ he said, when he was finally able to stop laughing. ‘It’s a family tradition.’ He grinned. ‘And given that I exploited that stupid pride of yours to lure you up here in the first place, there was no way I could let you die. No matter how hard you were trying to kill yourself.’ His smile slowly faded to be replaced by something like guilt. He hesitated for a moment, then: ‘I’m sorry I hit you the other night.’

‘So am I.’ Fin managed a rueful smile.

‘I shouldn’t have done that.’

‘No, you shouldn’t.’

Whistler’s smile returned, burgeoning into a grin that made light in his eyes. ‘No. I should have fucking killed that bastard Jamie Wooldridge. Next time, I will.’

Fin closed his eyes, and for the first time since consciousness had returned, felt his shivering start to subside just a little. He was aware, then, of Whistler tucking the hot stones into the folds of his blankets, and he could feel the warmth of them bringing life back to his frozen body.