Dark Mountain E-Book

Helen Susan Swift

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In the West Highlands of Scotland, after the end of World War One, Brenda and her friends are preparing for an expedition of a lifetime: climbing An Cailleach, also known as The Witch.

But even before they reach the base of the mountain, they realize that something is wrong. Strange apparitions, even stranger locals and ancient superstitions tell them of the dangerous path they have chosen.

When things take a turn for the worse, will friendship be more important than survival?

Leseprobe

Dark Mountain

Tales From The Dark Past Book 2

Helen Susan Swift

Copyright (C) 2018 Helen Susan Swift

Layout Copyright (C) 2020 by Next Chapter

Published 2020 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Foreword

I will relate events as they occurred and leave you, the reader of this journal to judge what is real and what is not. I cannot explain more than I write; perhaps you can understand things that I cannot, or maybe there is no explanation. I can only say what I saw, and what I heard and felt and experienced. I can do no more. Please, God that I did not do the things I may have done, or see the things I believe I saw.

I shall give you a little background before I properly begin so that you can slot me into the context of my story. I am an orphan. In 1896 somebody dumped me on the doorstep of an orphanage in Perthshire in Scotland, without a note or an explanation and only a scanty white cloth as covering. I knew nothing about that until I was eight years old when the good people who ran the orphanage took me aside and told me what little they knew about my life. I listened in silence and gave no hint of my feelings, for that was the way things were. I had already learned it was better to merge into the background than to step forward, and I knew how to sit on the sidelines while more important people took centre stage. I accepted the meagre facts of my life. I knew that nobody cared for me; I was a faceless, unwanted child, a burden on society and dependant on charity for my existence.

Perhaps my lack of worth explains why I have always been interested in the outdoors, in the wild spaces of Scotland. They provide an escape from the realities of modern life and allow me to think and contemplate and wonder who I am and from where I came. One can avoid people out there. One does not have to watch those fortunate enough to have friends and family and wish that life was different. One can be oneself.

However, I had never expected the spaces to be quite so wild as we found in those few days up in the Rough Quarter, the terrible peninsula of the Ceathramh Garbh in north-west Sutherland. Nor, God help me, did I expect the other events that happened on An Cailleach, the hill that people called The Dark Mountain. I can only hope and pray for my immortal soul, as the eagles soar above me.

Chapter One

Sutherland, Scotland, October 1921

'It's said to be haunted.'

We stood outside the remains of Dunalt Castle, with the wind tugging at the elder trees that strove to grow on the shattered stones and the smell of salt sea-spray strong in our nostrils.

'What rot!' Kate could still speak in the language of the schoolgirl she no longer was. 'It's no more haunted than I am.'

Rather than replying, Mary stepped closer to Dunalt and crept inside the gateway that gaped like the open jaw of a skull. I followed, resting my hand on the shattered stones as I entered. Despite the westerly wind, the stones retained the residual warmth of the autumn sun. Weeds and rubble choked the interior of the long-abandoned castle, yet the plan was distinct. The main keep dominated the north, soaring up from the sea-cliff-edge while the stables, kitchen and servants' quarters hugged the curtain walls.

I stood for a moment, trying to imagine what this place was like when it was all a-bustle with women and men, horses and children, and the proud standard flew over the keep. There would be the music of harp and pipes, the long tales of a sennachie and a flame-haired woman standing at an upstairs window, watching me, an intruder into her world. I could nearly hear the mutter of Gaelic and the clatter of iron-shod hooves on the ground, the batter from the blacksmith's forge and the soft lilt of a harp. I could also hear somebody's low moaning.

'There has been darkness here,' I said.

Mary gave me a sideways look. 'Now that's a strange thing to say.'

'I am a strange person,' I told her and she laughed uneasily.

'Oh, we all know that, Brenda Smith.' She stepped further away from me with the clach gorm, the blue stone crystal she wore for luck, swinging from her neck.

'Do you know this castle?' I asked.

'I know of it,' Mary said. 'It was a stronghold of the Mackays once, in the far-off days.' She pointed to the keep. 'There is said to be a glaistig, a green lady haunting that tower. She took a lover from the Gunns, the enemy of the clan and her father walled her into a tiny chamber until she starved to death.'

'Lovely fathering,' I said. That explained the moaning.

'Oh, there's worse than that in Sutherland,' Mary said. 'We have a history of clan feuds and massacres going back centuries.'

'Why is it a ruin?' I was aware that the others had crowded in behind us and stood in a chattering group, making inane comments and remarking about the romance of it all. I could not feel any romance in Dunalt. I could not feel much at all.

'There are two theories,' Mary had to raise her voice as Kate gave her views on Dunalt. 'One version of the story claims that there was a ball at the castle and the keeper ordered the blinds drawn, and the tongue ripped from the mouth of the cockerel so that the music and dancing would continue for days. In those days, you understand, there were no clocks so the cockerel would signal dawn. Naturally, there was whisky and wine.' Mary smiled, 'when the wine is in, the wit is out, and men and women began to argue about which music to play next.'

'Men and women don't need wine to argue about that,' Charlie said, loudly.

'No, they don't,' Mary agreed. 'In this case, the guests could not agree, so they wanted a neutral party to settle the dispute. Up here in Sutherland, there were no neutrals, so they shouted for the devil to come and arbitrate.'

'Nonsense,' Kate scoffed.

We ignored her, which was what she deserved.

'When the devil arrived, he came with a burst of flames that set the castle alight and all the guests ran screaming away. The castle was abandoned and never occupied again.' Mary finished her story.

'Best not meddle with satanic powers,' I did not mock. 'What was the other theory?'

Mary ignored me, as I had expected.

'That was a good story,' Lorna said. 'You said there was another theory. How did that go?'

'Well, Lorna, the other theory is not so colourful. The owner abandoned the castle for a more modern house in a more convenient location.'

I nodded. 'I prefer the devil's story.'

'The first story was more entertaining,' Lorna said, exchanging glances with Mary when Kate gave a hoot of laughter.

'Some people are receptive to the atmosphere,' Mary murmured. She glanced at Kate. 'Others are not.'

I smiled and looked away. I am generally susceptible to the aura of a place, either good or bad. I could find neither in Dunalt. To me, it was merely a castle burdened with years. I felt neither ghost nor devil, only the sense of sadness that most abandoned buildings possess and a spirit of darkness from the deeds done there.

The voices that rose from the keep were neither devilish or from the past. I saw the gaggle of tinkers emerge from the battered doorway. They saw us at the same instant. There were six of them, three sprightly barefoot children, their parents and a dark-eyed woman with more than the wisdom of years in her glance. Her gaze passed over us until it rested on Christine. Her eyes widened, and she moved quickly to me. I saw her frown, hesitate and lift her chin.

I walked towards her, knowing she wished me to.

'Who are you?' She said.

'I am Brenda Smith,' I told her.

The lines on her forehead creased into the shape of a horseshoe. 'That is the name you call yourself,' she said, and added: 'you know.'

'What do I know?' I felt drawn to this unknown woman.

Her frown dissipated and the expression of her eyes altered to great sadness. 'You do not yet know that you know,' she said. 'Soon you will know.'

'What will I know?' I asked. 'I am afraid that I don't understand.'

'One of you understands,' the tinker woman said. 'One of you understands everything.'

'One of us?' I glanced around the company. Kate had led Christine and Lorna to examine the dungeon while Mary had interrupted a conversion with Charlie to glower at the tinkers. 'Which one of us?'

Mary stepped towards the tinkers. 'God between you and me, mother,' she said to the old woman.

'Oh, I'll not harm you,' the tinker woman said. 'You have bigger concerns closer to home. Be careful when you are safe from the big step.'

'You're talking in riddles, mother,' Mary shook her head.

'May God help you all,' the tinker woman made a strange sign with her thumb and forefinger, somewhat like a circle. Still watching me, she took hold of the youngest child and hurried away, with her family close behind.

'I wonder what that was all about.' I said.

'Strange people the tinkers,' Mary told me. 'They like to unsettle people by pretending knowledge they don't possess. Some say they are descended from the old broken clans. Others think they are far older, descendants of itinerant metalsmiths from pre-Christian days.'

'Is that so?' I wished I had the skill to keep the conversation flowing.

'Back then tinkers were sought after, skilled men. Now?' Mary shrugged. 'The women tell your fortunes, and the men fix broken kettles.'

'I didn't know the women told fortunes,' I said. 'The only tinkers I see in Edinburgh sell clothes pegs door-to-door.'

'Oh, yes they tell fortunes. Some are said to be able to see into the future. They claim second sight, that sort of thing.'

I was about to prolong the conversation when Kate decided to assert her leadership. 'We've had about enough of this place,' Kate said. 'Come on, girls!'

We followed her, as we always did, as everybody always did. Kate was like that; she was a natural leader. People may like her or loathe her, but they followed her. If she had been a man, she would have been an officer in the army, probably in the Brigade of Guards. I could imagine her leading a battalion over the top and advancing into enemy fire, winning the Victoria Cross and enduring fame. That was our Kate, forthright, domineering, thrusting and perennially successful.

Piling into our two cars, we roared away, leaving the tinkers alone in the castle. I could still feel that woman's eyes on me, and for a few moments, I wondered what she had meant. Then I forgot about her. More important things lay ahead.

Kate drove the leading vehicle of course; her Vauxhall Velox Tourer was a two-seater beauty that kicked up the dust that we in the second car had to drive through. Kate had Christine at her side while the remaining four of us squeezed into an ex-army Crossley 20/25 that had seen hard service in France even before Lorna brought it onto these twisting Highland roads.

'Poor Christine,' Mary said, 'sharing with Kate. She'll hardly get a word in edgeways.'

'They were at school together,' Lorna reminded. 'Christine will be used to her.'

'Poor Christine,' I echoed, but nobody replied. I relapsed into my habitual silence and wondered why I had come. As we headed west and then south through the most glorious scenery imaginable, we watched the magnificent mountains rise and envelop us with the grey-white mists that flowed over them.

'The Norse thought these hills were gods,' Mary nearly had to shout above the noise of the engine as it laboured on the rises.

'They look like gods,' Charlie spoke from behind me. 'Male gods, arrogant and domineering, thrusting themselves upon the landscape, bearded with mist, rough and pretty useless.'

We laughed and enjoyed the majesty of the scenery.

'I wonder what An Cailleach is like,' Lorna spoke from the driver's seat. 'Is it like Suilven? Is it jagged and rocky?'

'We'll soon find out,' I said.

'It's like none of these hills,' Mary said. 'An Cailleach is a hill unto itself. It's unique.'

'Have you seen it?' Charlie had her pencil poised above her notebook. 'Have you been there?'

'No and no,' Mary tossed her bobbed auburn hair. 'I have heard about it.' She was silent for a few moments before she added. 'Family stories passed down from generation to generation.'

I knew Mary did not wish to say more. Kate's Velox was pulling ahead, so Lorna double declutched, changed gear and stamped down on the accelerator, roaring us over the road and frightening a group of sheep that scampered into the surrounding heather.

'You'll never catch her,' Charlie had her notebook open and was sketching the tail of the Velox, as seen through a cloud of dust. 'She's far too fast.'

'I'm not trying to catch her,' Lorna shouted. 'I'm only trying to keep her in sight! It seems like the only proper thing to do as she knows where we're going!'

As we approached the Strathnasealg Inn, a thin smirr of mist eased over us, embracing the body of the car and smothering our view of the surrounding hills. Our headlights reflected back to us in a dim yellow glow, so even Kate was forced to slow to a modest forty miles an hour. To my imaginative mind, it seemed as if Sutherland was pressing down on us, trying to drive us away. We were southern intruders into this northern land, English speakers in the Gaeltacht, Lowland women with long skirts and lipstick in a land where hardiness was required even to survive. I kept my thoughts to myself and tried to appear cheerful.

'Come on girls,' I said. 'We're on holiday, and we're about to make history. Let's chase away the mist with a song.'

There was silence for a few moments until Mary said, 'how about some music, ladies?'

Somebody began with It's a long way to Tipperary until Lorna shuddered.

'Not that one,' she said. 'Not that one or There's a Long Long Trail a-winding either.'

'How about Roaming in the Gloaming?' Charlie asked and began singing. We all joined in right away, with Roaming followed by I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles, A Good Man is Hard to Find, Swanee and Look for the Silver Lining.

We were still singing when we rolled up outside the Strathnasealg Inn. Kate parked head on to the front door with the twin beams of her headlights boring into the windows, while Lorna turned neatly and reversed beside the Velox, ready to drive away. Only a pair of oystercatchers disturbed the sudden silence when both engines were cut.

'Well, here we are,' Charlie packed away her notebook and pencil. 'Let the great adventure begin.'

I had never been to the Strathnasealg Inn before so studied the building and its surroundings before I left the car. The Inn sat within a group of small fields, most of which had been recently harvested to leave stubble on bare brown earth. The Strathnasealg appeared to be a typical Highland hotel, a one-time shooting lodge built in late Victorian times in the Scottish Baronial style with dormer windows overlooking the views on all sides. More like a castle than an Inn, it shrugged off the mist that the westerly wind encouraged to drift across its splendid towers. Lights glowed inside, revealing a vast bar decorated with stags' heads and a gaudy tartan carpet.

'We're here!' Kate announced her arrival by hooting her car horn. 'Porters! We have luggage!'

'That will make us popular,' Mary murmured. 'For God's sake, shut up, Katie!'

A young freckle-faced man acted as porter, grinning as he lifted the first two bags of Katy's luggage and promising to return for the rest.

'I'll carry my own,' Charlie growled.

'Follow me, girls,' Kate commanded, and we trooped into the Inn.

A group of tweed-clad men in the bar turned to watch us enter. One muttered 'Good God' and turned away, while another gave us a friendly smile. His eyes were shrewd and shaded. I immediately knew that he had endured much.

Our rooms were small, decorated in the height of fashion perhaps twenty years previously and without plumbing, none of which mattered when we looked out of the window to see the most glorious vista of hills, sea and moors. I shared my room with Mary, while Lorna and Charlie were next door and Kate and Christine in the best room in the hotel.

'The bed's not bad,' Mary bounced experimentally. 'A bit creaky perhaps.'

'I've slept in worse, and it's only for one night.' I changed my travelling clothes into something less comfortable. 'Let's see what the food is like.'

'Probably vile,' Mary said. 'These Highland inns usually are.'

Mary was wrong. The Strathnasealg was noted for the quality of its seafood and had added venison and an excellent Aberdeen Angus beef to the locally caught salmon and haddock. I opted for the Cullen skink soup to go with my saddle of mutton and finished with a glass of what was meant to be a fine French wine. I was somewhat doubtful about both the adjective and the geographical origin but dutifully swallowed it down. I was not too happy about the quality of the bread either, although as nobody else complained, I kept my tongue still.

'Shall we repair to the lounge, ladies?' Kate invited. We all knew that ladies would not frequent such a place yet we liked to shock and followed Kate into that sacred domain of men.

The smell of expensive pipe tobacco and whisky wrapped around us the second we pushed open the double multi-paned doors. The carpet underfoot was faded Black Watch tartan, while glassy-eyed deer-heads stared at us from their position on the walls. As the Strathnasealg was a climbing inn, the company was mixed and exclusively masculine. As well as the hirsute locals with their ubiquitous black-and-white collie dogs and silent gazes there was a plethora of mountaineers and hill walkers all intent on maps and routes and serious discussions of past glories and future conquests. The advent of half a dozen of the fairer sex certainly unsettled their private little kingdom.

While Kate requisitioned a table and its attendant chairs, Charlie strolled to the bar. The eyes of every man in the room followed her, most disapproving, either of her very short hair or her presence in their world. The man who had smiled at us when we entered the Inn watched musingly, stroking his military moustache. His companions did not mute their comments.

'Good God, they've let women in here.'

'Don't they know this is a climbing inn?'

'They must be in the wrong place, surely.'

'It's bad enough granting them the vote without having to share the bar with them.'

Sudden blindness seemed to strike the barman when Charlie pinged the little brass bell for his attention.

'I say! Custom!' Charlie shouted until the barman shambled up as if reluctant to take her money. He stared at Charlie as she ordered a bottle of the house wine.

'We don't have wine,' he said.

'What do you stock?' Charlie kept her tone reasonable.

'Whisky.'

'Excuse me, ladies.' Kate pushed herself up from her seat at our table and sauntered to Charlie's side. 'The inn serves wine for meals,' she said. 'I am sure you could pop through and find some for your customers.' She presented the barman with her best smile. 'We'll wait here until you return.' Her voice hardened a fraction. 'Off you go now, Alan.'

The barman's face darkened as the noise in the bar quietened into a tense hush. 'I did not tell you my name.'

'You are Alan Finlay; you are 26 years old. You were a steward in the Royal Navy in the late war and took this position in June 1920.' Kate pointed to the back of the bar. 'The door there leads to the kitchen and the stairs down to the storeroom are on the left. I presume that's where the hotel holds the wine.'

Alan looked shaken. 'How do you know that?'

'My family owns this hotel,' Kate said. 'Off you go.' She turned away to talk to Charlie. The voice of authority had spoken.

I saw Mary's face darken. 'What's the matter, Mary?'

'Oh, nothing.' Mary's smile was forced. 'Nothing at all.'

The taller, saturnine man who came in Alan's place was apparently the manager. 'I did not know you had honoured us with your presence, your Ladyship.'

'That title belongs to my mother,' Kate said. 'I use the title The Honourable Miss Gordon.'

'Of course.' The manager gave a little bow and held out a hand. 'I am Maurice Nott. I do so apologise for my barman's inefficiency. Of course, we have wine, and it will be on the house.' His accent was southern English.

'Thank you, Mr Nott.' Kate accepted the complimentary wine with the ease of long habit.

'Of course, if I had realised that it was you, I would have served you in person.' Nott gave an obsequious smile that immediately repulsed me. 'Would you permit me to offer my apologies and honour the hotel by accepting my offer of providing free lunches tomorrow?'

Kate remained polite and aloof. 'Thank you, but we are going off to the hills tomorrow.'

'Then I shall arrange for a full packed lunch for all your party, Miss Gordon.'

'That will be acceptable,' Kate said. 'There are six of us, and we intend to be at least three days.'

Nott bowed again. 'I assure you will enjoy our packed lunches. We grow our own vegetables and grain here and have, I believe, the only rye bread made in Scotland.'

'Thank you.' Kate remained cool. 'One of my party has a fondness for marmalade.'

I smiled over at Kate, surprised that she knew my particular tastes.

'I shall ensure that one packed lunch contains marmalade sandwiches.'

'Thank you. Dundee marmalade if you have it, and if you could send over a couple of bottles of the house red, that would suit,' Kate said, 'and a couple of bottles of claret.' She returned to our table without a smile. Kate was used to having people jump to obey her.

'Are you ladies sightseeing?' The man who had smiled limped across to talk to us. About forty years old, with weather-battered features and a strong chin, he seated himself beside us and waved a dismissive hand toward the men in the lounge. 'Don't concern yourselves with them; they are just not used to seeing women in here.'

'We're the Edinburgh Ladies Mountaineer Club,' Kate told him. 'I am Kathleen Gordon.'

'Ah,' the man nodded. 'I am Graham Mackenzie. How do you do?' He shook hands with us one-by-one.

'Christine Brown.' Quiet Christine did not raise her eyes.

'Mary Ablach.' Direct and to the point, Mary held Mackenzie's gaze.

'Brenda Smith.' I found his handshake pleasantly firm.

'Brenda Smith.' Mackenzie gave me a level look. 'You're no stranger here.'

'I am,' I said. 'I've never been here in my life before.'

'No?' Mackenzie frowned. 'I'm certain I've seen you before.' He shrugged. 'You must have a twin sister.' His smile was apologetic as I wished that I did have a twin sister.

'Lorna Menzies.' Lorna opened her mouth as if to speak further and then closed it again.

'I am Charlie Gunn, Graham.' Charlie gripped Mackenzie's hand.

'Are you Major Graham Mackenzie who won the Military Cross at Passchendaele?' Lorna asked.

When Major Mackenzie nodded agreement without any further elaboration, my respect for him increased.

'You lost your left leg rescuing two of your wounded men,' Lorna said.

Mackenzie still did not pursue his heroism. 'Edinburgh Ladies Mountaineering Club?' He said, 'it must be the season for active ladies. Catriona, my wife, is sailing around the British Isles even as we speak.' His blue eyes twinkled. 'She should be hereabouts in a week.' I understood that he was informing us of his marital state to reassure us his intentions were innocent. 'We don't get many lady climbers in here. In fact, I think you are the only ladies we have ever had. Are you after a Munro?'

Sir Hugh Munro had died only two years previously. He was the most famous of Scottish mountaineers, having catalogued and climbed all the Scottish hills over 3000 feet. In respect, all Scottish hills over that height were known as Munros.

'Not this time,' Kate said. 'We're off on an expedition to conquer the most interesting hill in north-west Scotland.'

Mackenzie looked immediately interested. 'Tip top! Whither bound? Suilven? Canisp? Stac Polly?' He rattled off a list of the most famous local peaks.

'Each of these is well worth climbing,' Kate answered for us all. 'But we have a different hill in mind.'

'Ah, Ben More Assynt then,' Mackenzie nodded. 'A tremendous hill.'

'No,' Kate said. 'Not Ben More either.'

'Oh?' Mackenzie raised his bushy eyebrows. He sipped at his whisky, looking eager. 'Where then, if I am not too nosey?'

'An Cailleach,' Kate told him.

'An Cailleach? The hill known as the dark mountain?' Mackenzie's smile quickly faded. 'You understand that nobody has ever climbed that hill. It's not even a Munro.'

'We know,' Charlie said. 'It's only 2,995 feet high, and we don't know for sure that nobody has ever climbed it. There have been attempts.'

Mackenzie sipped at his whisky. 'As far as I know, Miss Gunn, every attempt failed, either through bad weather or some other reason. The last attempt was in '14.'

'The Mahoney expedition,' Charlie had her notebook and pencil ready.

'Exactly. Three men set off to conquer An Cailleach, and nothing was ever heard from them again. With the Great War starting, the news of their disappearance faded from the newspapers, and now they are forgotten.'

'They are not quite forgotten,' Charlie said. 'We remember them.' She glanced at Kate before she continued. 'Perhaps you could tell us what you know of the Mahoney expedition, Major Mackenzie?'

'I don't know much,' Mackenzie admitted. 'I was with the Cameron Highlanders at the time, waiting for the balloon to go up. Most of the local men were. I was one of the lucky ones; I came back.'

'What could you tell us, Major Mackenzie?' Charlie leaned forward in her chair. 'Any little snippet of information could be helpful.'

Mackenzie signalled for another whisky. 'There were three men in the party,' he said, 'Mike Mahoney was an experienced Irish climber. He learned his trade in Ireland and climbed all over the Alps so a wee Scottish ben should have been nothing more than an afternoon jaunt for him. Maybe he was too casual.'

'Do you think they fell?' I asked.

'They must have,' Mackenzie said. The Ceathramh Garbh, the Rough Quarter is a bad place for a fall, with no roads, no shepherds or even shooting parties. There's nothing out there except rock and bog, nearly perennial mist and the wind.'

'Tell me all you can, please,' Charlie asked.

Mackenzie smiled. 'Now don't go scaring yourselves, ladies, I'm sure you'll be fine. Mahoney had two companions whose names I have forgotten. They stayed here, at this inn, overnight some time at the end of July 1914, crossed over to the peninsula on which the dark mountain, An Cailleach, sits and were never seen again.'

'Has anybody tried to look for them?' Charlie had been scribbling notes in her small leather covered pad.

'Most of the local men were in the war, either in the Army or at sea,' Mackenzie said. 'The few that returned had other things on their minds, anyway by that time it was far too late.'

'Have there not been other climbing parties since the war?' Charlie asked.

Mackenzie shook his head. 'Not for An Cailleach. It's not popular with anybody and not worth the trouble to climb.'

'Why is that?'

Mackenzie nodded his thanks as the barman refilled his glass. 'It's an ugly lump of a hill with a bad reputation. The Mahoney party was only the latest of many attempts that were either beaten back by bad weather or had an accident. The eastern and southeastern face has bogland and mist while the western face is cliff rising sheer from the sea.' Mackenzie lifted his hand as an elderly man entered the room. 'Here's Duncan Og, young Duncan, he knows about the hill more than I do.'

Duncan Og looked about ninety with deep lines seaming his brown face and only the bright twinkle in his eyes revealing the spirit that still lay within. 'Oh, there are plenty stories about An Cailleach,' he confirmed. 'It's a hill better avoided than attempted and I don't know why you young ladies want to go there at all. I could tell you about broken legs and broken heads on that black hill, going back fifty years.'

'Has anybody ever climbed it?' Kate asked. 'I heard it was unconquered.'

'It is a virgin summit,' Duncan Og confirmed. 'Nobody has got to the top and nobody ever shall.'

'We'll be first,' Charlie said. 'An all-woman team will conquer Scotland's last unclimbed hill.'

It was then that I saw her. In a room where our climbing club was the only female presence, I saw another woman. I did not know who she was, or when she had entered. I only knew that she was standing in the midst of the men watching me.

'You may well conquer An Cailleach,' Duncan Og was drinking whisky from what looked to be a half pint tumbler. 'Or you may not. An Cailleach has her own rules and chooses who she allows onto her flanks.'

'Her own rules?' Charlie hooked her claws on the sexuality of the word. 'An Cailleach is a mountain, a lump of rock. It is neither a he nor a she.'

Duncan Og smiled from beyond his glass. 'An Cailleach is more than a lump of rock, Miss Gunn. All mountains have a distinct personality. Some are friendly, and welcome visitors, others are unfriendly and do not wish to be disturbed. These are the hills you must treat with respect and ask their permission before you tread on them. An Cailleach is one of these hills, and she is undoubtedly a woman.'

'Why?' Charlie's voice cracked like a pistol. 'Are you saying An Cailleach is unfriendly so must be a woman?'

Duncan Og's smile did not falter. His eyes were diamond-bright as he examined Charlie. I wondered what sort of man he had been in his prime and thought of the old Highland warriors and mercenaries. 'I am not saying that at all, Miss Gunn. Now listen while I tell you the story of An Cailleach.'

I saw Kate fidget in her chair and guessed that she was about to chase this elderly man away. 'Yes, please Mr Og,' I intervened. 'I do like to hear a good story.' That other woman was gone. I had not seen her move, and nobody had commented on her presence. I wondered if I had imagined seeing her. She had been vaguely familiar, although from where I could not say.

Duncan Og glanced meaningfully at his glass and Mackenzie signalled the barman to have it refilled. 'Have you heard of the Badenoch witches?'

Rather than admit that I had, I solemnly shook my head. Encouraged, Duncan Og sipped at his recharged glass and continued.

'Away back when the world was young, Lord Walter Comyn was a wicked bad man. He owned the lands of Badenoch and had the power of pit and gallows over all the men and women who lived there. One autumn he had the idea that all the young women of Ruthven should be stark naked at the harvest.'

I looked over to Charlie, hiding my smile at her expected frown of disapproval. She shook her head, writing furiously in her notebook.

'I take it he paid for his lust,' I said.

Duncan Og chuckled. 'Oh, he paid all right. Naturally, the mothers of the young women were angry at Lord Walter's choice of entertainment.'

'I should say so,' Charlie said.

'If Lord Walter had known his tenants better, he would have known that the mothers of two of the girls were witches, who did not like their daughters to display their charms for a man, powerful landowner or not. The two mothers turned themselves into eagles and waited for Lord Walter. As he came to the ford over the River Tromie in Badenoch, they swooped on him, knocked him off his horse at Leum na Feinne, and ate him while he was still alive.'

Charlie nodded approval. 'Good. That's what the old lecher deserved.'

'Now,' Duncan Og chuckled and lifted a finger from his glass. 'The story of the Badenoch witches is well known. What happened afterwards is not known at all.'

I followed what was evidently a cue. 'What happened afterwards?'

Duncan Og took his time, as master storytellers do. 'The witches knew that killing Lord Walter would invoke revenge. They had to hide somewhere, so while one witch returned home to Badenoch, the other flew up here. Both became mountains and both were called An Cailleach.' Duncan Og leaned back in his seat.

We were all watching him, trying to reconcile our modern world with this ancient tale of witchcraft and folklore.

'Tell them what An Cailleach means,' Mary had been listening intently. 'And don't pretend it's Dark Mountain, that's just a nickname.'

'An Cailleach is Gaelic for the old woman or the hag,' Duncan Og was smiling over the lip of his glass. 'You may already know that a hag is another word for a witch.' His smile faded, and for a second I saw darkness in his bright old eyes. 'I'd advise you to ask An Cailleach's permission before you try to climb her. When I gave the Mahoney party that same advice, they laughed, and they have not been seen since.'

I heard Kate's sudden intake of breath, and for some reason, a shiver ran through me. Anybody who ventures onto the Scottish hills must be aware of the danger. The weather can change from summer to winter in a heartbeat and a slope that is dry and safe one minute could be a rushing torrent before one can blink. Yet I knew that Duncan Og was not warning us about the weather. That wise, wrinkled old man knew of more profound and darker dangers than mere gales and storms.

That other woman was back, invisible in plain sight as she stood among the unaware men. At her side stooped a white-haired man with a benevolent expression on his face and the most kindly eyes. When he gave me a very old-fashioned bow, I nodded back. Kate said something, I grunted my agreement, and when I turned to the old man, he was gone. Tomorrow we were going to An Cailleach. Tomorrow we were going to shake hands with the Hag. Some inner dread told me that we were not going alone.

Chapter Two

We gathered outside the Inn at six the next morning with the sun not yet up and a fresh westerly breeze bringing the tang of Atlantic salt. Our voices sounded hollow as we hoisted our rucksacks, stamped our boots on the gravel and tapped our sticks to hear the sound. Kate had one of our two maps and checked us all for equipment as if we were novices on our first trip to the hills.

'You all have your boots?' She looked downward. 'Well nailed and sturdy I hope? How about you, Christine, let me see.'

Christine dutifully lifted her boots while Kate inspected the soles and heels.

'The walker who essays a long hill walk without nailed boots is a fool,' Kate said. 'She doubles her fatigue and is putting herself in danger.' She looked at me and gave a grin that revealed something of her true self behind the swagger. 'I read that in a guidebook once, and I've been waiting to use it ever since.'

We laughed, although I am not sure why. Kate could do that to us. One moment she was hectoring and badgering, the next she was the finest friend you could ever have, and you knew she would do her very best for everybody.

'Head coverings, girls!' Kate continued. 'Something woollen and waterproof.'

We dutifully held up our assortment of hats and caps. I favoured a thick woollen cap comforter that I had bought in a pawn shop in Edinburgh's Royal Mile. Khaki and warm, I supposed that some soldier had worn it in the trenches and pawned it when he returned from the fighting to find himself unemployed and unwanted. Kipling has the rights of it with his: 'special train for Atkins' in wartime and 'chuck him out, the brute' as soon as the guns fall silent. That goes for Jock, Paddy and Taff as well of course and no doubt Johnny Gurkha and the splendid Indian soldiers. Well, at least I had benefitted from the government's cynical disregard for the men who had fought for its existence.

'Sweaters?' Kate poked at us. 'You know that I recommend Shetland wool.'

I wore a heavy ribbed jumper I had knitted myself, in a fashionable shade of khaki to match my hat. Every wool shop in Edinburgh carried surplus khaki wool since the war ended. It was the cheapest buy imaginable.

Kate held up her hands. 'I wear mittens up the hills. Do we all have gloves?'

'Yes, Kate' we chorused, with Christine lifting hers in the air in proof.

'Ropes, pitons and hammers?'

We held up our climbing equipment.

Kate nodded. 'I can see the rucksacks and sticks. Does everyone have a compass in case we get lost?'

Some of us had a compass. I carried one, as did Lorna and Christine. Charlie and Mary did not.

'A compass is no good on An Cailleach,' Mary said. 'It is a magnetic hill and distorts the readings.'

'I didn't know that,' Lorna said.

'Nonsense!' Kate was more emphatic. 'You should always carry a compass.'

By that time, faces filled the windows as the other walkers and climbers watched us depart. A party of women going to the hills was not usual. We made the most of it, keeping our backs straight and laughing as if attempting An Cailleach was nothing to us. We all wore long tweed skirts except for Charlie, who scandalised the watchers with her male attire and short-cut hair. Charlie was like that; she loved to prove her equality to any man in every way possible.

Kate continued with her habitual lecture. 'The earlier we start, the better as every hour before noon is worth two in the afternoon. Walk at a steady pace, girls, and short rests. Rushing and resting lead to fatigue.'

'Yes, Kate,' we chorused.

'Has everybody got plenty of food?'

'Yes, Kate.' I felt like a school girl rather than a woman fast approaching twenty-five.

'We will eat little and often. Luckily the hotel has been generous in supplying us.' Kate looked at us, her girls. 'On we go then.' She lifted her staff in the air. 'Success to the Edinburgh Ladies Mountaineering Club!'

'Success to the Edinburgh Ladies Mountaineering Club!' We shouted, hoping to disturb the equanimity of the watching males.

With our preparations complete, we stomped away from the Inn and onto the rough road that led to the coast. Seagulls screamed overhead, and a pair of oystercatchers whistled to each other as they flew together.

'I like oystercatchers,' Mary said. 'They mate for life. In Gaelic, they are Gillebridean, the guides of St Bride.' She watched them fly past. 'They are the most beautiful birds.'

I agreed. I always had felt an affinity for birds and wildlife. It was another of the reasons I turned to the hills. 'How about you?' I pushed for a conversation.

'What do you mean, “how about me?” ' Mary looked confused; as well she might as she had not been privy to my thoughts.

'What draws you to the hills?'

We marched on as we spoke, with our boots echoing on the road and kicking up the occasional stone. Drystane dykes surrounded the small fields we passed, with shaggy cattle and equally rough black-faced sheep grazing the rough grass. One or two cows lifted their heads to watch us pass.

'I was never a city girl,' Mary said. 'Although I was born in Edinburgh, I never felt that I belonged there.' She lifted her head to the grey lagging dawn. 'Every chance I got, I was way up Arthur's Seat or some other open area. Oh, the trouble I got into for that!' She smiled across at me. 'I won't tell you what my mother said. You can guess!'

'I can guess,' I agreed. The sun peeped its head between a cleft in the hills behind us, welcoming a new day. I stopped to admire the view. After the confines of Edinburgh, the openness of the far North West spread before us, soothing with space, embracing with keen air.

'There's the sun, now.' Mary took off her headscarf and turned to the east. She mumbled something in Gaelic.

'What was that?' I asked.

'It's an old blessing my mother taught me,' Mary said. 'In English, it runs like this:

Glory to thee

Thou glorious sun

glory to thee, thou sun

Face of the God of life.'

I listened, 'that's lovely.'

'It's very old,' Mary stood on the road, allowing the sun to warm her. 'It predates Christianity.'

'Sun worship?' I asked.

'I imagine so,' Mary said. 'A lot of nonsense of course,' she laughed depreciatingly.

'I don't think it's nonsense,' I defended Mary from herself.

'It doesn't fit in modern life,' Mary sounded uncomfortable as if I had caught her out in some guilty secret. 'Not with motor cars and factories and railway trains. We've moved past all that sort of thing.'

I looked around at the emerging panorama of hills, sky and fields, and felt the hint of salt in the air from the nearby Atlantic Ocean. 'Have we?'

Mary looked sideways at me, opened her mouth as if to speak and closed it again.

'Come on, girls!' Kate's voice interrupted us. 'We'll change here!'

Kate had stopped in the shelter of a ruined cottage, with a single gable end still standing and the rest a rickle of stones that preserved the outline of what had once been somebody's home. We hurried to join her.

'Skirts off, trousers on and off we go!' Kate was jubilant as she stripped off her coat, unfastened her skirt and took off her boots. She stood in her underwear as she opened her rucksack to pull out a pair of tweed trousers. We followed her lead so for a few moments any passer-by would have the possibly delightful view of six young women standing bare-legged and partially undressed as we struggled into heavy trousers.

As I took off my boots, I felt the ground under my feet. It was friendly as if it welcomed me. Warm waves rose from the earth, through the soles of my feet and up my legs to spread through my entire body. I had never experienced anything quite like it before.

'Can you feel that?' I asked Mary.

'Can I feel what?' Mary looked confused.

'A warmth,' I tried to explain. 'It's like a wave of heat coming up from the ground.'

Mary shook her head. 'I can't feel anything.' Bending over, she placed the palm of her hand on the bare earth. 'It's cold if anything.'

I noticed Charlie watching us, her eyes fixed on Mary. 'I must be mistaken,' I said.