L. Maynard: Black Cathedral

It was Jo Madley with whom Johnson was least familiar. She was about his age, blonde and lithe and he fancied her quite badly, but there was something about her self-confident style and brusque manner that told him she was out of his class, but he hadn’t quite ruled himself out of the running. Andrew Johnson, however, was crass enough to make a pass at her on the launch and lived to regret it. Her rebuff was short and acidic and he’d withered in front of their eyes.

Jo Madley had been the first of the group to disappear.

The boat couldn’t get as close to shore as Scart intended; the forlorn wooden jetty had crumbled further into the gray sea since his previous visit and he couldn’t maneuver near enough for his passengers to get onto it. They would have to get their feet wet if they intended to get onto Kulsay. Though why anyone would want to stay a single night on the damned island was beyond him. There were enough stories, enough missing people and animals, to ward off all but the most foolhardy. As a mainlander he had had no patience with the crofters at the other end of the island and their ancient beliefs. Not that he hadn’t been as worried as the next man when they all disappeared.

Let them all be blown off into the ocean during the next storm, let the island and its traditions rot and sink into the cold dark water. Now that they were all gone, he regretted thinking ill of his fellow men and women, but he hadn’t changed his mind about the island. He cursed the day he had ever set eyes upon it.

Michael Bennett realized almost straightaway that things wouldn’t go smoothly. Jo and Sheila screamed as the boat bucked on a large swell. It was at that point that Scart told them they would have to jump for it. What that meant in practical terms was leaping about three feet from the boat onto a few clearly rotting planks of wood that were already roughly a foot underwater.

To Bennett’s surprise Eddie wasted no time in jumping from the boat. With equally surprising agility he moved from there onto the jetty itself.

‘Come on, Andrew,’ Eddie shouted. ‘Get your fit young ass up here and help me with the others.’

Andrew, cocky as ever, looked at him with almost oriental scrutiny and then wordlessly leaped onto the submerged planks. He seemed to know straightaway what Eddie intended; a two-man line from the boat to the relative safety of the jetty.

Bennett began to shepherd the others from the boat. The women were light enough to jump cleanly and for Eddie to catch them and maneuver them up to Andrew safely. Whether they would have been so willing if it was Andrew doing the initial grabbing from the boat Bennett doubted.

When they were all on the jetty with their bags, Bennett turned to thank the skipper. He had already turned the boat and was heading back to the mainland without a backwards glance.

At that moment it began to rain, and Bennett’s misgivings began again in earnest.

Kulsay Island in the eighteenth century wasn’t a great deal different from the one visited so disastrously in the twenty-first. There were more trees, and the only buildings a roughly hewn church and the original Manse. Both were inextricably linked.

The obscure group who built and populated the Manse led a sheltered if not entirely blameless life of devotion and prayer. That their prayers were not offered to any conventional God was a secret they managed to protect until word of their practices spread across the inlet of the inhospitable sea to the mainland. The consequences of that discovery reverberated through the centuries, the sacred lines carrying surging power, swirling like veins beneath the earth’s skin, creating a beating rhythm of pulsing strength, feeding and breathing with a mystery as ancient as the curse that enveloped them.

Bound by the blood promise that wrapped itself around them, they slowly emitted hollow echoes that traveled ceaselessly — waiting, patiently waiting for the century that would provide sufficient sustenance for release.

With feet already wet from the landing, and with the persistent rain obscuring the gray light that clung to the last few minutes of the day, the six company employees trudged away from the water’s edge and up towards the Manse.

Casey Faraday was still holding onto Andrew’s arm and Bennett hoped he hadn’t been wrong about her. Andrew had offered to help Sheila with her bag but she politely declined while Jo Madley gave no indication she needed or would welcome any offer of assistance. As they neared the large, indistinct shape of the house, the watery light seeping from the grimy windows didn’t exactly cheer them.

‘Looks welcoming,’ Andrew said in his ironic way.

Casey gripped his arm tighter, and his mind began to run ahead of itself while his arm pressed against her breast and relished the soft warmth it found there. ‘Anywhere out of this rain is home at the moment.’

‘If the phone is connected you can ring home, Casey,’ Sheila said sweetly. ‘Let your husband know you’re missing him.’

Before Casey could reply, Bennett said, ‘There is no phone. That’s part of the deal. It’s a survival week. Live rough and develop as a team.’

‘In that case some of us have become good team players already,’ Sheila said.

Any response was postponed by a sudden shout of thunder and the slight rain altered direction and intensity; screaming at them in jets of pure fury. They ran for the house, luggage slowing them.

Behind them none of them noticed the ground undulate, rippling as if forces beneath it were struggling to get free.

Andrew Johnson was first through the door. He threw down his holdall and searched with one hand for the light switch. As the others bustled inside the lights flickered and illuminated in pale shadowed fringes a hallway that would once have been considered grand. Worn black and white tiles shuffled off into corners where dust piled in inelegant mounds. Once-ornate covings were coated with accumulated grime that lent them the appearance of mould, and judging from the underlying smell of the house mould was prevalent throughout.

‘Home sweet home,’ Jo Madley murmured, voicing the thoughts of them all.

‘It’s a survival course,’ Bennett said. ‘And the house seems to be part of the survival.’

‘Stayed in worse on the road,’ Eddie said cheerfully. ‘ We just need to get warmed up.’

Their footsteps echoed on the marble tiles as they began to open doors and check inside. None of the rooms were inviting; most of the furniture was covered in yellowed dustsheets, the windows covered on the outside by wooden shutters and on the inside by thick velvet curtains, drawn tightly shut. At least the electricity seemed to be connected and the lights in all the rooms working.

They weren’t conscious of moving through the rooms as a group, but that’s what they did. It was as if none of them wanted to be alone, even though they would have argued they were merely team building if one of them had mentioned it.

Because they kept together, none of them noticed the curtains rippling as though breathing, and the fresh finger marks on the old dustsheets.

They decided to share rooms. Once Eddie’s coarse jokes were all used up the three women took one large bedroom to the front of the house; there was a huge four-poster bed there and a smaller divan type; and the men selected a room at the back with four single beds in it.

‘No good if we strike lucky,’ Andrew complained and while Eddie ignored the comment, Bennett knew it was made only half in jest.

Unpacking didn’t take long as they had been instructed to travel light and wear warm, practical clothing. Jo went through to the en suite bathroom and as soon as the other two women heard the sound of running water they jumped on the bed and began talking.