Scott Nicholson - Head cases

'I'm not sure. Maybe it's for someone who died either here or at sea near here. We can ask in town if you like?' I turned towards her, noticing the goose pimples which had been raised on her arms.

'Get yourself inside and put some clothes on. We don't want you to catch a chill. Anyway, by the time we get going and get to the town the shop will be open.'

When we eventually got to the shop it was ten o'clock. There had just been too many things to see on the drive down.

The shop held only basic foods-eggs, bacon, cheese, nothing too fancy-but Sandra had got over her cravings for exotica and we would be able to stock up with most of our needs for the week.

Sandra was the focus of much of the talk and was in danger of excessive mothering from some of the women we met. We turned down several offers of a warmer room closer to town and the shop owner took our list from us, promising that she would make it up and we could collect it later.

Luckily the hotel served late breakfast. The pace of life on the island moved slowly and you could run breakfast into lunch into evening meal into supper without leaving the hotel grounds. We managed to escape at one in the afternoon, weighed down by bacon and sausages and swilling with coffee.

It was only when we stopped by the shop to pick up our supplies that I remembered the cairn.

The shop keeper tried to hide her movement but I caught it-the sign against the evil eye, two pronged fingers stabbing at me as she spoke. 'You don't have to worry about that sir. It's only an old memorial. Some say there used to be a plaque fixed to it, but no one can remember what it's there for.'

I noticed that the rest of the customers in the shop had fallen silent. I supposed that the cairn was the focus for some old superstition. That didn't bother me, but I wasn't about to tell Sandra. Unlike me, she held a fascination for the supernatural. Anything that went bump in the night or was out of the ordinary, she fell for it.

I could never understand the fascination with scaring yourself half to death, but I knew that if she found out that there was something weird about the cairn, she would not stop until she had winkled out the story. In the car on the way to the cottage, I told her it was a war memorial and then let the subject drop. She didn't ask any questions.

We finally got back in late afternoon, having made numerous stops to marvel at the stunning variety of life around us. Sandra made a big show of hand-washing our traveling clothes and hanging them from a clothesline at the back of the house.

The rest of the day passed lazily as we sat on the lawn, drinking long drinks, watching the scenery, and making happy plans for our future. We took our food out onto the grassy area, sitting on an old rug and throwing occasional morsels to an inquisitive squirrel. I think that evening was the closest to heaven I have ever been.

Doctor Reid arrived around six o'clock and spent ten minutes reassuring himself that Sandra was not about to go into labour in the near future. He was gracious and gentlemanly and I could see that Sandra was charmed. Something in my chest loosened as a knot of worry melted away.

I walked him back to his car while Sandra cleared up the remains of our picnic. We made small talk about the weather and our prospects for the coming week, and he had got into his car before I said what was really on my mind. I don't know what made me do it, what made me think that he was the man to ask, but before I knew it the sentence was out.

'Do you know anything about the monument out the back?'

He gave me a little sideways look over the top of his glasses and it was several seconds before he replied.

'And why should you let that thing bother you Mr Wilson?'

Before I could reply, he continued. 'If you really want to know the story, you'll find a version in a book on your shelves. A Tourist's History of Jura. I believe you'll find it educational. But make sure you don't tell your wife-it's not a tale for the faint-hearted.'

At that, he wound up the window and drove off, leaving me with an unexplained chill in my spine. I shook it off and went back to help my wife.

We were finally forced indoors by a chill wind which brought the clouds down the hills as the sun disappeared and a fine grey mist spread over the sea.

Sandra busied herself with some knitting-baby clothes, naturally, and I managed to locate the book which the doctor had mentioned.

It didn't take me long to find the appropriate section and I was amused to see that the chapter had been written by a certain Doctor Reid of Craighouse, Jura.

There was a block of description of the cottage and the surrounding area before it got to the interesting bit.

The mound behind the house is of some antiquity. A local legend associates it with the little people who seem to be all prevalent in this area, and one of the race in particular. In 1598, the battle of Trai-Guinard took place on Islay, the neighbouring island. The battle was going badly for Sir James MacDonald when he was approached by a dwarfish creature who proclaimed himself capable of swinging the battle in return for certain favours.

To cut a long story short (and in these parts stories can grow exceedingly long), Sir James, despite some qualms, agreed. An hour later the battle was his and his enemy, Sir Lachlan, lay dead of no apparent injury. Sir James retired to his house near Craighouse and that night, Wee Robbie was made a freeman of the estate.

And now we come to the meat of the story. The townspeople did not take kindly to the creature in their midst, but he was under the protection of the Laird and they were powerless. Until, that is, the children started to disappear.

Tales are still whispered around the fires of the scene that met the eyes of the men who had the courage to enter the dwelling of the dwarf. Hideous dismembered corpses lay strewn in all corners and a cauldron was bubbling in the grate, a foul brew of body parts which could be seen rising in the stew before falling back once more into the stinking mess.

And yet none had the courage to end the creature's life. They interred him in the tomb, a chambered cairn for long-dead kings, and they fixed him there with the cross and the iron.

It is said that sometimes, in the dead of night, the tortured screams of the Dubh-sith, the black elf, can be heard ringing from his prison, and that at such times it is wise to lock the doors and huddle around the warm hearths of home.

I could see why the doctor didn't want me to pass the tale on to Sandra. One thing she didn't need was lurid fantasies of a child molester in the back yard. When she asked me what I was reading I passed it off as some local colour and changed the subject.

For the rest of the evening, I tried to read about the wildlife of the island, but I couldn't get the vision out of my head of the seething pot of offal and the things which floated in it.

The next time I looked up, Sandra was smiling at me and it wasn't long before we adjourned to the bedroom and made tender, careful love as the darkness closed in around us.

Later, just as I fell asleep, I could hear the wind was rising, whistling through the chimney breasts and causing the trees to rustle and crack.

I woke early and squeezed myself away from Sandra, taking care not to wake her. After boiling some water in the kettle, I ventured out to see what the weather was like, but the first thing I noticed was the effect of the wind. The washing was gone from the line, torn off the rope during the night. I found a shirt in the left-hand stream, a pair of underpants halfway up a tree, and I could see Sandra's blouse hanging from one arm of the cross on the cairn.

I retrieved everything else I could see before moving to the mound of stones. I stepped over the railing, just missing doing myself an injury on the spikes, and clambered up the rocks, dislodging a few in the process and giving myself several bruises on my knees.