Ann Pilling - The Witch of Lagg

“It’s all worked out beautifully,” she’d announced, patting her new steel-grey perm when they eventually met up at Dumfries Station, but one look at Oliver and the Blakemans’ spirits sank. He’d muscled in on their family holiday yet again, and this time all his pernickety, nit-picking habits would be reinforced by his mother.

Anyway, if either of them upset Alison it was going to be all-out war. They’d agreed that on the train.

“She’s not going to be bossed round by those two,” Prill had said fiercely. “She’s only little, and they’ll just have to make allowances. Aunt Phyllis is always so mad keen to get people organized . Ugh!”

It was their aunt who’d roped them in for this rock-shifting exercise. She firmly believed that “the devil made work for idle hands to do” and when she’d discovered that Duncan was expected to do the job all on his own she’d immediately dispatched the children up to Lochashiel.

“Go and give the poor boy a bit of help,” she’d ordered, immediately after breakfast. “Get some fresh air in those lungs. Four pairs of hands are better than one. Lunch at twelve-thirty sharp. I’ll cope with Alison.”

Oliver hadn’t wanted to touch those stones at all. The first couple of days with his cousins were always difficult anyway, because he irritated Colin, who made no secret of the fact, but the minute he saw the huge heap, piled up like a cairn on the top of a mountain, in the middle of that cottage garden, he knew that there was something special about it, and that it shouldn’t be tampered with.

He’d said nothing, realizing they’d probably laugh at him, or say he’d got a bee in his bonnet, as usual. Instead, he’d hung about by the little garden gate as the other three inspected the mysterious rocky mound, with cold shivers running up and down his back, silently willing them to leave the thing alone. When they started to load the barrow he came forward very reluctantly, but he didn’t offer to help. Prill and Colin knew he wasn’t strong, and he was ill quite a lot. He’d trade on that if the Scots boy tried to get him working.

He stood watching nervously while the others removed the first few layers of stones and chucked them into the barrow. When two loads had been wheeled down to the field, and they were doing a third, Oliver peered forward and suddenly put a hand on the greenish mossy stones that were now coming to light. They were damp.

“I bet it’s a well,” he said quietly, a strange excitement creeping into his voice. He jabbed at the boulders with a stick. “Look, you can see now. It’s definitely circular, and these stones have sunk in a bit. I bet that’s what it is.”

Duncan glanced across at Oliver as he took a swig from the lemonade bottle. This boy puzzled him. A queer staring look had come into his eyes when he saw the cairn, his thin little body had gone all rigid for a minute and he had obviously been very reluctant to join in. The Scots boy wasn’t too impressed. It was a hard job they were doing, and he needed all the help he could get. The girl hadn’t been able to do very much, because most of the stones were just too heavy for her to lift, but this boy could have surely had a go. His first attempt had sent him staggering backwards and his second had grazed his knuckles. He’d then spent a full five minutes complaining, and inspecting his injuries, and after that he’d not helped at all; instead he’d fiddled round by the well, poking round with a penknife and putting bits of rubbish in his pockets. He just didn’t like hard work. Oliver didn’t exactly resemble Superman. He was thin and bony, and short for his age, and he wore thick black glasses that gave him an owlish look.

“I reckon it’ll take maybe another twa loads to finish this job,” Duncan grunted, casting a scowl at Oliver as he helped Colin back on to the track with the barrow. “Aye, an’ yon laddie’s neither use nor ornament the noo.”

“No,” Colin muttered in embarrassment. “It’s a bit typical I’m afraid. He’s a skiver. I’d like to tell him exactly what I think of him but it’s rather difficult with his mother always breathing down our necks.”

He could have said a lot more about his cousin but he decided to keep quiet. They’d been on holiday together before and Oliver got weird ideas about all sorts of things. Events had often proved him right, but somehow Colin didn’t want to embark on all that, not with this straightforward Scots boy. He’d certainly noticed Oliver’s odd reaction to the cairn of stones, his bulging eyes, his shaking; he might tackle him about it later, when they were on their own. He knew his cousin wouldn’t say anything himself, he was too secretive.

They were tireder than they knew after all the fetching and carrying. Colin could hardly push the barrow along the path, though it was downhill all the way to the field.

“Is it stuck?” said Prill, tugging at the rough wooden handles. “Let’s all pull together. One, two, three … there you are. You’re off.” And Colin staggered away into the trees with his creaking load.

He was halfway down the track when something odd happened. At first he thought it was that idiot Oliver playing tricks on him. He was pushing his barrow along, quite enjoying the smell of the pine needles, and the stillness of the deep woods, when someone suddenly jumped on to his back.

“ Hey! ” he shouted, dropping the handles, “What on earth …” It was the kind of thing Alison did sometimes. She’d get up on to a stool or table, leap on his shoulders and beg for a piggy-back ride. Cold little fingers were clutching at his neck now , and there was a funny whistling noise in his ears. He spun round, but the weight on his back made him lurch about and he fell sprawling into the bracken. The barrow tipped over and its load went crashing on to the path. One of the biggest stones hit Colin’s foot, right on the instep where there was hardly any flesh. It was terribly painful, even through his sneakers.

“ Ouch! ” he yelled, hopping about, and rubbing. But someone was actually laughing at him, a thin, high-pitched laugh that seemed to set the nearest bushes rustling. A spiteful kind of cackle that sent cold shivers through him.

His foot was so painful that he felt quite sick. He sat down, closed his eyes, and dropped his head down between his knees. When he looked up again Duncan was peering down at him anxiously. He had two massive boulders, one under each arm, and he was sweating.

“What’s come ower ye, man?” he asked.

“I … I …” Colin began feebly, but words failed him. There was nobody else on the path at all, and the other two were still up at Lochashiel. Yet it had to be Oliver who’d pounced on him like that. Who else could it have been?

“What’s wrang wi’ ye?” repeated Duncan, looking at him curiously, then at the overturned barrow, and the litter of stones.

“Someone jumped out at me,” Colin said, still rubbing his foot, “and they must have run off into the woods. I – heard them laughing.” He got to his feet again, but he swayed slightly. The weight didn’t seem to have gone away somehow. He must have ricked his back, humping all those stones about.

“Sit you doon, man,” ordered Duncan. “Ye look like ye’ve seen a wee ghaist. I’ll put the stanes back; you bide where y’are a wee while.”

Colin watched him reload the barrow. He puffed and sweated as if each stone weighed a ton. It was as if they’d doubled in size on their way down from Lochashiel, and he kept dropping them. It was the slimy ones from the bottom, presumably, that would keep slipping through his fingers.

He’d only just finished when Prill and Oliver came out of the trees. The skinny young boy was carefully cleaning the blades of his penknife but Prill was looking into the woods. She kept turning her head from side to side, and sniffing.