Читать книгу On the Edge of Darkness - Barbara Erskine - Страница 10

‘A-dam?’ The hand on his shoulder was as light as thistledown. He started and sat up. ‘Brid?’

It was the spring. The Easter vacation. Ten whole days of freedom stretched before him. Adam had come back several times in the autumn but there had been no sign of Brid or Gartnait, no trace, though he cautiously searched, of the shabby cottage or the village. Frustrated, he pored over maps and books in the library for signs of the place, but to no avail, and when the snows came to the mountains he gave up looking and concentrated, much to his father’s satisfaction, on his school books.

He had also given up hoping for a message from his mother. He no longer raced to meet the postie or hid on the stairs peering through the banisters, his heart thudding with hope when there was a knock on the door.

Sometimes, at night, he cried for her, secretly, his head under the pillow to drown his stifled sobs. His father never mentioned her and he did not dare ask. He was not to know that there had been letters; four of them. Enclosed in the missives she sent to her husband, pleading for forgiveness and understanding, the lonely, frightened, desperate woman’s declarations of love for her son went unread into the waste paper basket and slowly, miles away to the south, her despair of ever seeing Adam again grew greater. Once she had come on the bus and stood, hidden by a hedge, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but her fear of being spotted by someone from the village, or worse still by her husband had been too great, and, in tears, she had caught the next bus back to Perth and then the train south. She did not know that that day Adam had been far away on the hillside, lost in dreams.

Jeannie Barron knew no more than Adam did. Her heart ached for the boy as she saw his white face and the tell-tale red-rimmed eyes in the mornings. When school started he would cycle off while it was still dark to the bus stop in Dunkeld five miles away and there he would catch the bus to Perth, leaving his bicycle hidden behind a hedge. When he returned from the long day, his books in his satchel, it would be dark once again and there was no question of going anywhere but, after supper, to his own room. When the snows came he would stay in Perth during the week, lodging with Jeannie Barron’s cousin Ella as he had done since he first went to the Academy.

‘Brid!’ He grinned with pleasure. ‘I thought I wouldn’t see you again!’ He had been terrified for her after he had fled from her village, his memory of the tall, angry man and the gleaming knife-blade haunting his worse nightmares.

‘A-dam, shortbread?’ She sat down beside him and, reaching for his knapsack, rummaged through it hopefully. It contained his bird book and field glasses, the notebook and an apple.

He shrugged. ‘No shortbread. Sorry.’

‘No shortbread. Sorry,’ she repeated.

‘Have the apple.’ He picked it out and handed it to her.

She looked at it doubtfully.

‘Surely you know an apple!’ He shook his head in despair and taking it back from her took a huge bite to demonstrate.

She laughed and nodded and taking it back from him followed suit, displaying her small white teeth. Like him she had grown taller in the intervening months.

‘Apple good.’ She nodded.

‘Brid, why was that man so angry when I came to your village? Who was he?’ He was trying to mime the question.

She looked at him and for a moment he thought she understood. The quick intelligence in her eyes, the sudden tension of her shoulders betrayed her, but she shook her head and smiled. ‘Apple good,’ she repeated.

Frustrated, he shrugged. Then he had an idea. ‘I’m going to teach you some more English,’ he announced suddenly. ‘Then we can talk properly.’

His lessons went on all through the summer. Adam, his knapsack laden with shortbread, or scones or chocolate cake – immediately popular with Brid – met her on the long evenings and at weekends and then in the vacation. Most of the time they stayed on the southern slopes of the hillside, making no attempt to go to her village. He had pushed Brid on the subject of the man’s identity, but she had changed the subject with a shrug. One thing was clear however: whoever he was, she was very afraid of him. A couple of times they visited the cottage where her mother lived, just for the summer, he discovered, so Gartnait could be near the carving, for carving the slab seemed to be his full-time occupation. In the winter it appeared he had a workshop and men to help him but there was something special about this carving, something special about this stone, so that he had to work on it in situ. Sometimes they would sit and watch him for hours and he too would join in the language lessons while he worked, his chisels, hammers, punches and polishing stones laid out neatly in a row beside him.

Brid was a very fast learner and talkative and it was not long before she had overcome the frustrations of not being able to communicate with her companion. Adam for his part had already found out from his lamentable marks in Latin and French at school that languages were not amongst his strengths. His tongue tied itself in knots around the words she tried to teach him and he could remember few of them though he loved the way she laughed till she cried when he tried. Her fluency though made it easy for her to avoid his questions when she wanted to, and eventually he gave up asking about her village and her people. Gypsies, he supposed, must be naturally secretive, and with that conclusion he had to be content.

Jeannie Barron, discovering that chocolate cake was one of the ways to make Adam happy, made them more often and the two young people grew brown together in the sun as they picnicked and paddled in the burns through the hot spell. Adam made no effort to see the boys who had once been his friends. He no longer knew or cared if they avoided him. He seldom saw his father, who himself stayed out late more often. If he had known that Thomas was spending more and more time in agonised prayer, locked alone in the kirk, he might have felt a glimmer of sympathy, he might have sensed his father’s turmoil and loneliness and confusion, but he did not allow himself to think about his father at all. There were only three adults now in his life whom he trusted: Donald Ferguson, one of his science masters at school, Jeannie Barron, and Brid’s mother, Gemma.

‘A-dam, today we go see eagles.’ Brid adored his bird book. She pored over the pages and told him the names of many of the birds in her own tongue – names he could never remember. To his surprise she couldn’t write, so he had added that skill to his lessons, reassuring her when she fumbled with pencils, praising her when they found to the surprise of both of them that she could draw.

The eagles had an eyrie high on the side of Ben Dearg. To reach it they had to walk for a couple of hours, scrambling over increasingly steep rock and heather before stopping and sliding down the first of the deep corries that ran from east to west across the high moor. Halfway along, near the foot of the rockface, a torrent of brown burn water cascaded over a cliff some twenty feet or so into a circular pool before racing on down the mountainside. As they came to the edge of the cliff, several deer looked up startled and stared at them for a moment before bounding away out of sight.

Adam smiled at her. She was wearing as she always did a simple tunic, this one dyed in soft blues and greens, tied at the waist with a leather girdle in which she wore a serviceable knife. On her feet she wore sandals, not buckled like his but fastened round the ankles with long ribbon-like thongs. Her long hair she had fastened back with a silver clip. ‘We gave them a fright.’

She nodded. She had reached the pool first and she stopped and waited for him. Adam fell to his knees and bent over the water, splashing it over his hot face. ‘We could swim here.’ He grinned at her. ‘It’s deep. Look.’

She looked at him doubtfully and then at the dark water. ‘Swimming not allowed here.’

‘Why not? You paddle in the burn. It’s not that deep. I’ll show you.’

Before she could stop him he had pulled his shirt over his head and kicked off his shorts. Dressed only in his underpants, he leaped into the brown water.

It was much deeper than he expected and ice cold. He swam a few strokes under water, reached the vertical rock wall on the far side, ducked into a turn and rose to the surface gasping.

‘A-dam!’ Brid was kneeling on the rock at the edge of the pool. She was looking furious now. She held out her hands to him. ‘Come out. You must not swim.’

‘Why not?’ He shook his wet hair out of his eyes and struck out across the pool towards her. He was there in four strokes. ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’

She was pulling at his arm. ‘Get out! Get out! Get out quickly!’ She stamped her foot.

‘What is it, Brid? What’s wrong?’ He levered himself out beside her. ‘You’re not afraid, surely?’

‘A-dam! The lady in the pool. You have not paid her!’ Brid was whispering angrily.

‘The lady?’ He stared at her. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘The lady. She lives in the pool. She looks after it.’

Adam looked puzzled for a moment, then light dawned. ‘Like the cailleach, you mean? The old witch. A spirit. Brid! You don’t believe that? That’s wicked. That’s against the Bible.’ He was shocked.

She shook her head, not understanding him. Going to the knapsack which was lying on the ground in the shade of a rock, she rummaged in it until she found the greaseproof-wrapped cake. Opening the paper she drew her knife and carefully cut the wedge of cake into three. ‘For A-dam. For Brid. And for the Lady.’ She pointed to each slice in turn. Picking up the third piece she walked with it to the edge of the pool and climbed carefully out onto the rocks, which were slippery with spray, until she was as close as possible to the waterfall. Crumbling the cake between her fingers, slowly she dropped it piece by piece beneath the cascade, chanting some words under her breath as she did so.

When she had finished she stood still for a moment, staring round anxiously as though waiting to see if her offering had been accepted.

‘Brid!’ Adam was appalled.

She silenced him with an abrupt gesture, still scanning the water, then she pointed. He saw a small shadow flash past and it was gone.

‘That was a trout,’ he said indignantly.

She shook her head. Then in another lightning change of mood she clapped her hands and laughed. ‘Trout messenger of the Lady!’ she cried. She skipped back onto the bank. ‘The Lady is pleased. Now we swim.’ She sat down and began to unlace her sandals.

Beneath her tunic Brid was naked. She stood for a second on the rock, her body a pale contrast to her tanned arms and legs, then she leaped into the water with a splash and a delighted shriek.

Adam stood still. He caught his breath. He had seen the baby sisters of his friends sometimes without their clothes when their mothers bathed them before the fire, and he had always averted his eyes, particularly avoiding looking at the shockingly naked slit between their legs. He was still seriously intending to be a doctor, but he had never seen an older girl or a woman without clothes before, and now he had seen for a short moment when she stood untroubled on the rock this slim girl, young woman; seen her small firm breasts, the dark fuzz of hair between her legs, the provocative curve of hip and buttock before she leaped into the water.

He had never before considered how old Brid was. About his own age, he assumed, but she was his friend, his pal. He had never thought of her for a single moment as being like the giggling girls in Pittenross or Dunkeld, but his body, to his extreme embarrassment, was reacting by itself.

He stood where he was, mortified, the water dripping in pools around his feet as Brid flung back her hair, which had come free of its clip, treading water near him. ‘Come, A-dam,’ she called. ‘Come in. Nice.’

He smiled uncertainly, his eyes on her breasts as the water cascaded over her shoulders. Dark strands of hair plastered her back and clung to her pale skin.

‘Come.’ She had realised suddenly the effect she was having on him and her smile became provocative. She ran her fingers over her body, resting them for a moment on the pert nipples before sweeping them down over her hips. ‘A-dam. Come.’ Her voice had deepened. It held command. He hesitated for only a moment longer.

The cold water brought him sharply to his senses. Spluttering, he struck out for the far side of the pool, dodged round her and ducked under the waterfall itself. The noise was deafening. He was totally enveloped in the icy torrent, encircled by it, deafened by it, stunned by it. He trod water immediately under the fall and raised his face, feeling the power of it thundering over him. It was choking him, stifling him, drowning him. Abruptly he lowered his head, ducking out of it, gasping desperately to regain his breath.

Brid swam over to him in alarm. ‘A-dam? Are you all right?’ She touched his arm, her fingers cold.

He pulled away and felt the firmness of her naked thigh against his underneath the water. He reacted as though he had been burned. With a yell he turned away and flailed towards the side of the pool. Pulling himself up onto the rock he lay there for a moment on his back, trying to catch his breath.

She was right behind him. ‘A-dam?’ She knelt over him, the water dripping from her breasts. ‘A-dam, what is wrong? Did the water go in you?’ She had one hand on his shoulder, the other on his belly, gentle, concerned. ‘Poor A-dam. You went under the falling water. Only the Lady goes there. She was cross with you.’

He opened his eyes. ‘There is no lady, Brid,’ he gasped. ‘Saying there is, is evil. Wicked. You will go to hell if you believe such things.’

‘Hell?’ She was kneeling beside him, looking puzzled now, her long wet hair modestly shrouding her breasts.

‘Hell. Hades. Inferno.’ Adam was sounding increasingly desperate. ‘Brid, you have heard of Our Lord? Of Jesus?’

‘Oh, Jesus.’ She smiled. ‘Columcille talked of Jesus. Broichan does not like that. Brude, the king, he likes Jesus.’

‘The king?’ Adam was frowning at this torrent of strange names. The sun was in his eyes now as he lay back on the baking rock, Brid a black silhouette above him. ‘You mean King George?’

‘King Brude,’ she said firmly. ‘The Lady punish you, A-dam. She make water go in you. You must give her a present. Say sorry.’

‘I am not going to say sorry to a heathen spirit!’ he said hotly. He struggled to sit up, but she pushed him back, surprisingly strong. ‘A-dam, say sorry or she make you die.’

She had learned the word die when they had found a stag, its neck broken, at the foot of a cliff. To his surprise she had cried for it, her hands gently caressing the rough red-brown fur on its nose as it expired, its head in her arms. She was anything but gentle now.

‘She can’t make me die.’ A shiver sent goosepimples over his skin.

She nodded, her face transformed with such fury he felt a tremor of fear run through him. ‘She can. I serve the Lady, I know about her. I will kill you if she asks me to. She is very cross. You went in her special place. You must give her your piece of cake.’

Adam stared at her in horror. ‘I will not!’

‘You give her your piece of cake or she will make you die.’

‘Brid! You’re mad!’ He wondered for a split second as he said it if it were true. She was frightening him. There was a strange uncompromising look in her eyes which he had never seen before. A piece of cake was not going to appease some spirit in the water even if it did exist, which of course it didn’t. He tried to sit up again and this time she let him. She rose gracefully to her feet and stood before him. ‘A-dam, please. Give her a present.’ Her voice had assumed a new, deep resonance. ‘Anything. Give her your watch.’ She had never seen a watch before and was enchanted by it.

‘I will not.’ He tried to smile. ‘I’d rather she had the cake.’

‘Then give her cake.’ She was firm. She folded her arms.

His eyes had strayed to her breasts and he brought them back to her face with difficulty. ‘All right, if it makes you happy, I’ll throw away the piece of cake.’

‘Not throw away, A-dam. Give it to the Lady.’ She was implacable.

‘Brid –’

‘Give it, A-dam, or I will let her kill you.’ The authority in her voice made him stare at her in awe. From one moment to the next it seemed she had changed from a provocative child-woman to a raging virago, to someone with the authority of one of his teachers at school. Shaking his head, shocked and uncomfortable, he squatted down and meekly reached into his knapsack. He brought out the two remaining slices of cake and taking one he walked across to the pool. She watched in silence as he moved out to the place where she had stood and solemnly broke up the cake and let it fall through his fingers into the water.

‘There. Satisfied?’ He felt cheated; he had been looking forward to the cake. And he also felt guilty and afraid. Thanks to Brid he had made a sacrifice to some pagan gypsy god and in so doing endangered his immortal soul. He sat down on the rocks at the edge of the pool and wrapping his arms around his spindly shins he sank his chin on his knees.

She glanced at him. ‘A-dam?’ The anger had gone from her voice. This time it was soft. Hesitant. ‘A-dam? Why you cross?’

‘I’m not cross.’ He refused to look at her.

‘The Lady happy now. She eat her cake.’

He shuffled round slightly so that his back was towards her.

There was a small sigh. Then he heard the faint rustle of paper and looked round.

‘A-dam eat Brid’s cake.’ The last piece was being offered to him.

‘I don’t want it.’ Crossly he turned away from her again.

‘Please, A-dam.’ She sounded so mournful he was suddenly sorry. He turned. ‘I’ll have a little bit, then.’ He said it as though he were doing her a favour. He reached out and broke off the end of the slice from the piece lying in the paper cradled between her palms.

‘We share.’ She smiled. Sitting down on the rock beside him she broke the remains of the slice in two. Cramming her piece into her mouth she ate it with gusto. The sunlight was playing over her skin, warming it, soothing away the goosepimples where the wind had touched it with cold fingers. Adam looked away, concentrating as hard as he could on the cake in his mouth, pressing the soft sweetness against his teeth with his tongue, savouring the buttery crumbs.

‘Good?’ Brid smiled at him. Where the ends of her hair had dried they rose wispy round her shoulders.

‘Good.’ He nodded. He lay back on the rock, putting his arm across his eyes to shade them from the sun. ‘We’d better get dressed and go on if we want to see the eagles.’ In spite of his words he didn’t want to move; he wanted to stay there with this beautiful naked girl forever.

She was sitting staring out across the water, lost in thought. ‘We see eagles tomorrow,’ she said at last. It had been very hard to teach her what tomorrow meant. And yesterday. ‘We stay here and swim.’

He nodded sleepily. ‘That’s good.’

She was looking at him now, half smiling. He was tanned from the sun. The scars on his back from his father’s whipping had faded. He was a slightly built boy, slim, handsome, his shoulders beginning to broaden as he matured. Leaning towards him she put a gentle hand on his chest. He went rigid; she was bending over him now, her hair still cold and damp, trailing provocatively over his nipples, down towards his belly.

‘A-dam?’ Her voice was soft. Gently she pulled his arm away from his eyes and he looked up startled into her face, which was only a few inches from his.

She smiled, her hands running lightly over his shoulders, down his chest towards his stomach.

He caught at her wrist. ‘Brid, don’t.’

‘A-dam,’ she whispered. She wriggled free. ‘A-dam shut eyes.’

He stared up at her, paralysed, gazing into the depths of her silvery eyes. He had to move. He had to get up and go home. For a moment his father’s furious face flashed before him and he felt a bolt of fear transfix him. But he wanted to stay. More than anything in the world he wanted to stay exactly where he was.

‘A-dam shut eyes,’ she whispered again. She smiled and her grey irises were darkening now, growing deep and mysterious as she put her finger to his lips. Unable to move he shut his eyes and held his breath.

Her kiss was as light as thistledown on his lips. It tasted of cool clear mountain water and of chocolate and it sent a spasm of intense delight shooting through his whole body.

‘Nice, A-dam?’ she said softly. Her hands were on his chest now, playing with his nipples. His senses were beginning to spin. He didn’t know whether to concentrate on his mouth or his chest or on other parts of his body as he felt her lean lower over him, her skin cold and clean from the pool touching his to fire. Her hands had moved down now, gently pulling at his underpants. He opened his mouth to protest and found her mouth there on his, her tongue fluttering provocatively between his teeth. He could not push her away. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by feelings he could not control. With a groan he pulled her face closer to his, returning her kisses, wriggling out from under her so he could throw himself across her and slide between her open legs. ‘Brid!’ he groaned.

His hands were on her breasts and she gasped as he kneaded them harder and harder. ‘Brid!’

The moment of ecstasy which shot through him as he entered her left him exhausted and gasping for breath. For a while she lay still, gazing past him at the brilliant blue of the sky, then in one quick movement she had wriggled from under him and rose gracefully to her feet. She stood staring down at him thoughtfully as he turned to look sleepily up at her, and for a moment, as she held him trapped in her gaze, he felt a wave of fear. The surge of power coming from her was like a physical blow.

‘That was good, A-dam. Nice. Now A-dam mine. Forever!’ Their eyes seemed locked together, and Adam’s fear threatened to lurch into panic. His pulse was racing, his lungs frozen on a trapped breath. Then the moment was over. She looked away and laughed. ‘A-dam tired!’

She took two skipping steps to the edge of the pool and dived in.

Adam shut his eyes. His heart was thundering in his chest and he felt completely spent.

He was roused by a shower of ice-cold water full in the face. ‘A-dam sleeps!’ Her laughter was impish. She was standing over him, dripping, her hands still cupped. He could see the setting sun behind her, surrounding her in a glittering halo of red-gold, and for the first time he realised how long they had been there. He sat up slowly as she sank onto her knees beside him.

‘A-dam happy?’ He could feel her vitality and excitement, and something else, something wild and still, inexplicably, frightening.

He nodded. He was tongue-tied.

She leaned over him and in yet another lightning mood-shift reached for the knapsack. ‘Brid hungry.’ She rummaged through notebook, bird book and binoculars and shook her head dolefully. ‘No cake.’

He laughed and the spell was broken at last. ‘No cake. Your fault. You threw it in the water.’

Jumping to his feet he ran to the pool and threw himself in, feeling the water, gloriously cold and clean, blotting out the terror and self-loathing which was lurking somewhere at the edges of his mind. He swam the length of the pool as hard as he could, and when he struck out back across it he saw that Brid had got dressed. Wringing out her hair with her hands she had fixed it on top of her head with her sliver clip. When he reached the edge she had completed the change from the sultry, demanding woman back into a hungry child. ‘We go to Mama. She gives us bannocks.’

Adam nodded. ‘We’d better hurry. It’s growing dark.’ Now that she was fully clothed the fear was receding and shame and embarrassment were edging forward in his mind. He did not want her to see him naked. He wanted her to turn away as he climbed out of the water, but she stood looking down at him, not moving.

‘Hurry, A-dam.’

‘I’m coming.’ Crossly he began to haul himself out of the water.

But she wasn’t looking at him any longer. Her eyes were on the distant glen where the mist was creeping up amongst the trees. ‘Hurry, A-dam,’ she said again. ‘We go now.’

He had not meant to stay all night. He had intended to find his way home in the dark, but Brid’s mother’s fireside was warm and he was tired. Several times he dozed, leaning back against the rough wall of their house, then at last he slept. Brid smiled at her mother and shrugged and laughed and they pulled a cover over him and left him. Curling up on their own bed of cut heather covered in fleeces they turned their backs to the doorway and slept soundly.

He awoke suddenly. The cottage was cold, the fire smoored beneath its peats, the stone behind his back wet with condensation. He sat still, stiff and uncomfortable, listening to the absolute silence. Brid and her mother were still asleep but something had awoken him. Cautiously he pushed back the woollen blanket they had put over him and he climbed to his feet. He picked his way towards the doorway and pushed aside the leather curtain which at this time of year was its only protection and stepped out into the cold white mist of dawn.

Tiptoeing across to the burn he knelt and was splashing water over his face when behind him he heard the chink of metal on stone. He turned, pushing his dripping hair back from his face, and squinted around him. Seconds later grey shapes appeared at the periphery of his vision and he saw two men leading horses towards the cottage. He stayed where he was, suddenly afraid. One of them was Gartnait, he was fairly sure. The other – he leaned forward, screwing up his eyes, and then almost gasped out loud as he recognised the tall lean figure of the man who had threatened him in Brid’s village. Desperate to find a hiding place, he glanced round. There was nothing to conceal him but the mist.

‘Brid? Mother? Are you awake?’ Gartnait’s voice was shockingly loud in the silence. Though he could not speak it, Adam had picked up enough of their language to follow what was being said. ‘We have a guest.’

He could not see the cottage but moments later he heard a scuffle and then Brid’s mother’s voice, flustered, as she uttered words of greeting, the words almost identical to those she had once used to Adam. ‘Honoured brother, you are welcome to our house and hearth. Sit. Here. I will bring food.’

Brother was the extra word, a word that Adam knew. He frowned. Was it a general term or did it really mean that the man was Brid’s uncle? If so, why on earth had she not said so?

‘Broichan is here to see my carving, Mother.’ Gartnait’s voice was as always strong, easy to hear. ‘Where is my sister?’

‘She is coming. She is bringing bannocks and ale for our guest.’

Adam could imagine their consternation, wondering what would happen if he were still there, and then their relief when they realised that he had gone.

He had to move. At any second the mist could disappear, shredded by a morning wind or sucked up by the sun as soon as it rose over the mountains. He saw a shadow appear and then vanish again: Gartnait, leading the horses to tether them to the tree they called the look-out pine.

Cautiously Adam rose to his feet. He took a step away from the burn onto the fine grass which grew lush in the spray from the rocks. If he could reach the shelter of the trees he could disappear up the corrie and be gone before the day came.

He took another step. Then he froze. A voice, strong, deep, sounded so close to him he thought the man was standing next to him.

‘The king still entertains the Christians at Craig Phádraig. He has commanded that we put up the cross throughout his kingdom to appease the Jesus God. He believes Columcille has power to defeat mine!’

‘Then surely, Uncle, he is very wrong.’ Gartnait’s voice came in snatches. There was a shift in the whiteness and for an instant Adam could see the two men standing before the cottage. He tried to wish himself invisible as he saw Broichan’s back turned towards him.

‘Indeed, he is wrong. I have raised storms to splinter trees at his feet, to sink his boat, to kill his horse.’ Broichan sucked his breath in through his teeth. ‘He calls on his own god to compete with mine and the king, to appease him in the name of hospitality, bids me stay my hand. So be it. For now. Once he is no longer beneath the king’s roof tree, I shall swat him like a fly.’ He smote his thigh with the flat of his hand and Adam jumped. The man had only to move a fraction of an inch and he would see him.

A drift of mist strayed near them, barely more than a haze in the growing light. It was enough. Adam took two and then three swift steps towards the trees, holding his breath. There was a clump of whin near him. He reached it and crouched down in relief as the voices floated towards him again.

‘You must cut the cross on the reverse of the sacred stone, Gartnait. Show me your designs and I will choose. It will do no harm and it will please the king and his visitors. Later we will serve our gods and show that they are stronger when I split the mountains with the force of my anger! And little Brid here shall help me.’ He held out his hand to touch Brid’s cheek.

From his hiding place Adam could see her now. He held his breath, his skin crawling as he saw the man’s hand linger on her face with long clawed fingers. She had one of the silver plates Gartnait had engraved for his mother and was offering their visitor something from it. He accepted and Adam saw him bring it to his mouth. For a moment he stood staring at the silent tableau in front of him, then the mist drifted back and he could see no more. Without hesitating, he sprinted silently for the trees, dived amongst them, and set off as fast as he could up the hill.

The stone was touched with the first rays of the sun. Breathless as he reached it, Adam realised suddenly that he had left behind his knapsack with his precious books and binoculars. He cursed himself, but he knew it would have to wait. Brid would take care of them. Walking slowly round the stone he could feel the sunlight warm on his shoulders as for a moment he stopped to finger the intricate carvings. This was his stone. On one side were the strange symbols and figures of the ancient Picts, on the other the lattice and lace of the Celtic cross. Of Gartnait’s newly carved stone without the cross there was no trace.

Brid had hidden the knapsack under the bed coverings as soon as she had spotted it. Calmly she had scanned the interior of the hut for tell-tale signs of Adam. If there were any her uncle would see them. He had sight beyond the sight of normal men. She was praying as hard as she could that Adam had gone; not just into the mist but from their land altogether.

She knew her uncle was suspicious. He did not yet trust Gartnait and showed it by his constant visits. Gartnait was too young. The role of stone carver and keeper of the gate was a sacred one, a calling as special in its way as that of priest or bard. It was a family trust Gartnait had inherited from their father when he had died two years before. It went with the knowledge bred in the blood, of how to travel to the realms of the ever young if only one should dare. To go there was forbidden to all but the initiated, but sometimes people slipped without realising it through the gate – like Adam.

She had known the first time she saw him that Adam came from beyond the stone. His strange clothes and speech set him apart. She had watched carefully to see how he travelled the road which was supposed to bring death to all but the very few who knew the way. That he was a proper man and not a spirit or a ghost she had proved to her own satisfaction. But he was young to be an initiate. He had fascinated her from the first moment she set eyes on him. And now she had made him hers. A secret smile touched her lips briefly and then disappeared. Whatever his power was, she was going to have it.

‘Brid!’ The impatient call from outside made her jump. With another hasty glance round she stepped outside into the mist to confront the steady gaze of her uncle.

‘You look frightened, child.’ He had caught her hand and pulled her to him. ‘There is no need.’ Putting his hand under her chin he tilted her head up so he could study her face. Meeting his eyes she looked away quickly, afraid that he could see the new woman-power which was still coursing through her veins, the power which had come from the touch of a man. She could feel his eyes probing her very soul, but after a moment he looked away from her face and turned to his sister. ‘She runs wild here, Gemma.’ He spoke sternly. ‘She should be at her studies. There is much for her to learn if she is to serve in the holy places.’ He ran his hand slowly, almost seductively, down Brid’s cheek.

She took a step back out of his reach and straightened her shoulders. ‘I wish to follow the way of the word, Uncle.’ She looked at him steadily. Her fear had vanished, to be replaced by cool determination. ‘I have already learned much from Drust, the bard at Abernethy. He has agreed to teach me all he knows.’

She saw her uncle’s face suffuse with blood and instantly regretted her brave speech. ‘You presume to arrange your own life!’ he thundered at her.

She stood her ground. ‘It is my right, Uncle, if I have the gift of memory and words.’ It was her right as daughter of two ancient bardic families, one, her mother’s, of royal descent, for Broichan, her uncle, was the king’s foster father and his chief Druid.

There was a long silence. Gemma was nearby, jug in hand, in the doorway. She had been about to replenish her brother’s ale but she, like her two children, was standing, eyes fixed on his face. She held her breath.

‘Have you encouraged her in this?’ Broichan looked first at Gemma and then at Gartnait.

It was the latter who spoke first. ‘If it is her calling, Uncle, surely it is the gods who have encouraged her? Without their inspiration she would not have the talent to learn from Drust.’ Gartnait spoke with pride and dignity.

Brid bit back a triumphant smile. She wanted to hug him but she didn’t move.

Abruptly her uncle turned away. Striding to one of the logs positioned near the fire as a seat he pulled his cloak tightly around him and sat down. ‘Recite,’ he commanded.

Brid caught her breath and glanced at Gartnait. He nodded gravely. His sister’s waywardness, the stubborn furies which frightened him, the wild, in-born power, would be contained and safely harnessed by their uncle.

She moved forward. At first she was too nervous to speak, then almost miraculously her nerves vanished. Straightening her back she raised her head and began.

Her teacher had been thorough. On the long winter evenings, by the fire, he had noticed Brid in his audience, aware of her breeding and her brain, and had painstakingly repeated the long poems and stories which were their heritage until she could recite them faultlessly. Brid’s memory, as Adam had discovered, was exceedingly good. Already she had the basics of what was taught in the bardic school.

At last Broichan held up his hand. He nodded. ‘Indeed your tongue must have been touched by the goddess. That is good. You shall study further.’ He gazed at her for a moment seeing clearly her nascent power, her wild, untamed link to the Lady. He frowned for a moment, a shadow crossing his face. There was a hardness there, a stubbornness, a single-mindedness of spirit which until the moment was right would have to be carefully handled.

He turned back to his sister. ‘Your children are both talented, Gemma, which is as well. As soon as this monk, this Columcille, has gone back to the west where he came from, we shall have to chase the Jesus god from the land. They shall help us do it.’

That way she could be used.

And contained.

And her blood, as the child of kings, could sweeten and purify the earth defiled by the man sent from the Jesus god.