Stephen Lawhead - The Paradise War

Scotland is a strange place. I failed to see the attraction so many otherwise sane people professed for this bleak, wind-bitten scrag of dirt and rock. What wasn't moors was Iochs, and one as damp as the other. And cold. Give me the Costa Del Sol anytime. Better yet, give me the French Riviera and take everything else. The way I figured it, if one could not grow a decent wine grape within shouting distance of the beach, the hell with it.

Simon stirred me from my reverie with an impromptu recitation, as startling as it was spontaneous. Without taking his eyes from the road, he said:

«I am the singer at the dawn of the age,

and I stand at the door to the west.

Three fifties of warriors uphold me,

whose names are lauded in the halls of chieftains;

great lords make haste to do their bidding.

Royal blood flows in my veins,

my kinship is not humble;

yet my portion is despised.

Truth is the root of my tongue,

wisdom is the breath of my speech;

but my words find no honor among men.

I am the singer at the dawn of the age,

and I stand at the door to the west.»

Well, knock me over with a feather. You live with someone for a few years and you think you know them. «Where on earth did you get that?» I asked when I finished gawping.

«Like it?» He smirked at me like a naughty schoolboy confiding a guilty secret to his headteacher.

«It's okay,» I conceded. «Where did you find it?»

«Haven't the foggiest,» Simon answered. «Must have tumbled across it somewhere in my reading. You know how it is.»

I knew how it was, all right. Simon the dutiful scholar hadn't so much as winked at a book in months. «Have you any idea what it means?» I asked.

«Actual1y, I was hoping you'd fill me in,» he replied diffidently. «It's a bit out of my line, I'm afraid. More in yours, I would have thought.»

«Simon, what's going on? First this extinct ox business, then you get all bothered about the time-between-times thing, now you're quoting Celtic riddles at me. What gives?»

He shrugged. «It just seemed apropos, I suppose. The hills, the sunrise, Scotland. . . that sort of thing.»

I would get more information from an oyster, so I changed the subject. «What about breakfast?» Simon didn't answer.

He seemed suddenly preoccupied with driving. «How about we stop in Nairn for a bite to eat?»

We didn't stop in Nairn. We whizzed through that town so fast I thought Simon might be trying for a land speed record. «Slow down!» I yelled, stiff-arming the dashboard. But Simon merely down-shifted and drove on.

Coming out of Nairn, Simon picked up the A939 and we flew, almost literally, across the hills. Luckily, we had the road to ourselves. It unwound in a seamless, if convoluted, strip and we beat it along with respectable haste. Just beyond the Findhorn river we came to the village of Ferness located at the crossroads of the A939 and the B9007. «This is our turn,» I told Simon. «Take a right.»

The B9007 proved to be a narrow tarmac trail along the bottom of the Findhorn glen, and the principal way into the remains of Darnaway Forest, which, to my surprise, possessed all the earmarks of a proper forest. That is to say, hills thickly covered with tall pines, morning mist waking among the trees, and little streams coursing down to the river below. After a mile we reached a tiny village called Mills of Airdrie.

I knew enough Gaelic to figure that the word «Airdrie» was a contraction for the ancient Celtic term «Aird Righ,» meaning High King. While there was nothing strange about a king having a mill on the river, I found it slightly peculiar that he should have been a High King. In antiquity, that title would have been reserved for only the most elite of royalty, and rarely in Scotland.

The village itself wasn't much: a wide spot in the road with an inn and combination grocer's-newsagent's-post office. We continued on another mile and reached an unmarked road. A weathered sign stood at the crossing; it had «Carnwood Farm» written on it in bright blue with an arrow pointing the way. We turned left and soon came to a stone bridge. We crossed the Findhorn once again and drove on deeper into the heart of Darnaway.

Carnwood Farm lay on the flat ground between two broad tree-clad hills. Small, neat, and spare, the place appeared efficient and prosperous. But it also had about it an air of… I don't know… emptiness. As if it were long abandoned. Not neglected, not deserted. Just untouched. Or, more precisely, as if the land were somehow resistant to human occupation. This was patently absurd. The buildings, the fields, and the tumbled niin~of an old moss-grown stone tower hard beside the farmhouse spoke of generations of continual habitation.

«Well,» said Simon, «this is the place.» He had slowed the car to a crawl upon our approach and now stopped on the shoulder of the road. A large gray stone house and outbuildings stood at the end of a long, tree-lined drive. A black-painted wooden gate separated the drive from the road.

A tin mailbox bore the name Grant in bold white letters.

«So?» I wondered. «Are we just going to sit out here, or are we going in?»

«We go in.»

He switched off the engine and took the keys. We got out and walked to the gate. «It's cold out here,» I said, shivering. My poncho was in the car. Simon tried the gate; it wasn't locked, and swung open easily.

A great floppy dog met us halfway up the drive. The animal did not bark, but ran to greet us, wagging its tail happily. It licked both my hands before I could stuff them in my pockets. Simon whistled the accommodating animal to him.

«Hey, Pooch, is your master at home?»

«He's home,» I said. «And here he comes.»

From around the corner of the barn approached a man in a shapeless brown tweed hat, a black overcoat, and green wellies. He carried a long stick in one hand, and looked as if he knew how to use it.

«Good morning, sir,» Simon called, turning on the Rawnson charm. «Nice place you've got here.»

«Mornin'.» The farmer did not smile, but neither did he hit us with his stick. I took this as a good sign.

«We've come up from Oxford,» Simon volunteered, as if this should explain everything.

«All that way?» The farmer gave a slight shake of his head. Apparently Oxford could not easily be compassed in his geography. «You'll be wanting to see the beastie, then.»

I thought he meant the dog, and was about to point out that we had already enjoyed that pleasure, when Simon said, «That's right. If it's no trouble, of course. I wouldn't want to put you out.»

If it's no trouble! We've driven day and night to get here expressly to see this aurochs creature and he wouldn't want to put anybody out. Give me a break!

«Oh, it wouldna put me out,» the farmer replied agreeably. «I'll take you now.»

He led us out behind the barn to a small field. The frosted grass crunched underfoot with a sound like eggshells. I scanned the field for any sign of the unfortunate ice-age relic but saw nothing.

Presently we stopped and the farmer thrust the end of his stick at the ground before us. «T'was here he fell,» he said. «You can see the way he bent the grass.»

I could see no such thing. I could see nothing at all, in fact. «Where is it?» I asked. Disappointment made my voice sharp. That, or desperation.

The farmer gazed placidly at me-much, I suppose, as one might regard the village idiot-pity and amusement mingled in equal parts. «But it's no here, is it?»

«I can see it's no here-not here. Where has it gone?» I didn't mean to be short with the man. But no one else seemed to think it mattered that we had driven eight zillion miles for the express purpose of looking at a bare patch in an empty field.