booksnew/source/Bane/Bane03.txt

CHAPTER THREE
The big storm blew itself out on the morning of April 28 leaving a
trail of broken branches, a couple of deadfalls here and there, and
enough roof—work to keep a team working for a month. Out on the
firth the wreck of the Cassandra and her twelve thousand tons of
unreiined sugar from Central America settled on to the sandbank,
the hulk humping out of the water like a dead behemoth.
After such a filthy night, the day was remarkably clear and
warm. My iirst breath of salt air felt terrific as I stepped out of the
front door, lanced by the dappled green fire that shot through the
battlemented chestnut trees that lined the street. The garden was
in not too bad shape, maybe a bit overgrown, and I made a mental
note to get out the old petrol—driven mower soon, as well as getting
up on the roof to inspect the storm damage. I stretched in the
sunlight and slung my leather jacket over a shoulder. As I left the
house, I almost automatically picked up my grandfather’s stick
from the hat—stand by the door, but on second thoughts left it
where it was. It had felt good in my hands in the faraway last night,
but perhaps I wasn’t ready to be a boulevardier about town yet.
In the main street, a few people I remembered nodded hello and
I nodded back and smiled and was feeling a whole lot better by the
time I got to Holly’s bar.
Inside it was dark and warm, already quite busy despite the fact
that it was just past lunchtime.
Up at the bar, a friendly looking barmaid, with dark hair and
brown eyes flashed me a quick smile and went on pulling a pint for
somebody else.
‘Be with you in just a minute} she said, and levelled off the dark
flow of beer, pushing the tap back to let the brew gain a satisfying
head.
She took the money and slung it in the cash register, then turned
to me. Just then, her name came back to me. Linda. Linda
something or other. Linda Milne. She was about twenty three or
so, fairly tall and solidly but attractively built. She had lived a few
doors along from me when I last lived in Arden.
‘Yes sir, what would you like?’ she asked, still obviously
33

recognising me from somewhere, but not yet sure.
‘Just a coke, Linda. It is Linda, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, how did you know? Have we met before?’
‘Plenty of times. I’m Nick Ryan, I used to stay just .... ’
‘Oh, I thought I recognised you. You look much different in real
life,’ she interrupted. ‘We saw you on the television?
‘I hope I look better than that}
‘Yes, but you look taller, and younger as well,’ she said.
‘You’ve just made my day,’ I replied, and she blushed a bit.
‘You certainly look older. You must have been about ten the last
time I saw you. How’s your big brother doing?’
‘Very well. He’s in computers with British Airways. He’s
married with two wee boys . . . my nephews. And how about you?
Worked here long?’
‘Oh no. I’m on holiday from university. I just work here part
time. I’m doing languages up at Glasgow. I just missed a chance at
Cambridge, but really it’s much handier.’
We chatted for a bit and I nursed my coke, promising myself to
stay away from vodka for a while. My constitution was definitely
not up to the hammering I’d given it last night. The cool drink went
down easily and the bubbles scoured me out like steel wool. It felt
good.
Linda the academic barmaid brought me fairly up to date on
who’s who in town. She accepted a drink from me and surprised me
by just having a fresh orange juice. After an hour of Arden’s recent
history, in which she was as well versed as any woman in a small
town, she rang the bell and shouted time. I told her I’d only
dropped by to see Holly and she explained that he was still in his
bed after being out all night after the wreck. I didn’t explain that
I’d been there too. I told Linda I’d see her again, hopefully, and
went out into the street, deciding what to do next.
There were a couple of people I had planned to visit, but this was
not the day for it. I’d also promised to go and see Alan Scott’s
dream house in Upper Arden, but that could wait. I stood outside
Holly’s, squinting in the sunlight, trying to make up my mind what
I had actually planned to do. Nothing sprung to mind, so I just set
off strolling down the Main Street, which was actually a section of
the Kilcreggan Road which came into town from the east, became
Main Street for the whole length of its passage through Arden, and
became Kilcreggan Road again on the other side. I stopped off at
the newsagent for some cigarettes and chewing gum — the latter a
bolster for my attempts to cut down on the former — and carried on
east along the street to the break where a couple of smallholdings
34

and paddocks formed a short green belt before the start of Milligs.
This had always been a favourite playing area. One of the fields
was covered in bare patches where brown earth showed through
the short worn grass. Kids had played football in this field since
time immemorial.
The old pitch looked the same as it had done in my childhood,
especially on a day like this, a high spring day with the sun higher
and the bees buzzing about the flourish on the hedgerows, the
daisies and clover bright asterisks against the green on the
touchlines where the grass remained intect.
Along the far side there was a farm path, a good solid road that
was well maintained by the passage of tractors and cars, hard and
dry. On either side it was bordered by strong hawthorn and privet,
lined with black knapweed, cow parsley and docken. I turned into
the path and strolled in the sunlight.
Mr Bennet, who ran the smallholding and never seemed to mind
the hordes of kids ruining his field, was in the yard next to his
cottage as I passed by.
He was tinkering with some sort of cannister, and as I
approached he put on an odd-shaped hat with a wide brim that
came over his eyes. Just as I stopped, he looked up and raised a
hand to ward off the sun.
‘Hello Mr Bennet,’ I said.
‘Huh?’ he grunted, just as smoke started belching from the
cannister.
‘Damn thing,’ he muttered and reached to cover the spout with a
small plastic cone.
‘Do you need a hand‘?’ I hadn’t a clue what he was doing, but
thought I might offer anyway.
‘No, s’alright. Got the bloody thing now.’ He looked me up
again, straining against the sunlight to get a look at me.
‘Oh, it’s young Ryan isn’t it?’
‘Yessir.’
‘Haven’t seen you in a while,’ he said, easing to his feet, a small,
wiry man in dungarees. ‘What’re you up to, then?’
‘Just going for a walk. Checking out the place. Seemed like a
nice day for it.’
Old Mr Bennett lifted a scrawny arm and pushed the hat back on
his head. It dawned on me that the thing was a beekeeper’s
headgear, for the fine protective gauze was rolled up behind the
crown and tied with two neat laces.
‘Want to come and watch?’ he said. I nodded and he opened the .
peeling green gate that led on to a path between well-tended, just-
35

budding rose bushes. ‘It’s a bit early for a swarm. Mostly July, but
there must have been something wrong with the queen.’
We went round to the back of the cottage and across a patch of
ground where vegetables were sprouting in straight lines. Beyond
this there was a small field, bordered with ash and sycamore. There
in the corner stood a dozen or so hives, white boxes against the
green.
The old man pointed to a thick bush twenty yards away from the
hives.
"There’s the swam. Lucky for me I noticed them before they all
took off.’
I could hear, even from that distance, the soft hum of the bees.
All around the bush there seemed to be a faint, dark cloud that
waxed and waned in time with the buzzing.
‘Come on. I’ll see if this thing works. I borrowed it from Bert
McFall last summer, but never got round to using it.’ Old Mr
Bennett pushed the single strang of wire of the fence down just
enough to get his leg over it and held it down until I passed by and
we made our way over the swarm. The buzzing got louder as we
approached and soon I could make out the individual dots of the
bees. They sounded angry, and I said so.
‘On no, that’s just the noise they always make. They hardly ever
swarm, so people don’t know what a whole pile of bees sounds like.
‘I’ve seen you doing this before years ago,’ I said. ‘You used a
watering can.’
‘That’s right,’ he nodded. ‘I always have done. But McFall says
this is easier. Quietens them down quicker, and it saves me lugging
two gallons of water about every time I try to catch ’em.’
He started unrolling the netting and tucked the gauze in around
his neck under his chambray shirt. With a motion of his hand he
gestured me to stay back. He uncapped the cannister and smoke
started billowing out all around him, white clouds that drifted
lazily in the calm air. Walking towards the bush he held out the
smoke gun and started spraying the fumes into the heart of the
swarm. I couldn’t see what was happening, but I’d watched him
before, and I coulld picture the seething brown mass, like a huge
gobbet of molasses clinging to the forked branch of the bush,
thousands of bees snuggled round their new queen. The noise was
ascending up into the high register as the outrunners, the scouts
sent out to seek out a new hive milled about like tiny lighters. From
inside the dense cloud, Mr Bennett coughed as he breathed in the
white fumes. I hoped they were harmless. After about five
minutes, the buzzing started to diminish and there were less scouts
36

flying out from the swarm. The returning bees flew into the cloud
and most of them stayed there. Soon there was hardly a hum from
the somnolent swarm.
‘Hey, young Ryan. Hand me over that box,’ his voice called
from the dissipating cloud. I bent and picked up the carton which
had previously held one of iifty seven varieties in the supermarket
and moved in to the thick bush.
‘There they are. This thing does work. Look at them. Sleeping
like babies,’ he said.
‘I gave him the box and he opened the flaps at the top and
wedged it in under the brown mass.
When it was directly under the swarm, he reached out and
grabbed the branch, above where the bees were massed, and gave
it a firm shake. A large part of the swarm broke off the main body
and fell into the box with a thud. He did this a couple of times, and
then the whole swarm slid down. A couple of bees dizzily flew out
of the carton and banged into leaves and branches and the old
man’s legs. He deftly flipped the four top flaps one over the other
so that they locked.
‘That’s us. We’ve got most of them. The stragglers should follow
on.’ He reached over with the box. ‘Here, you take this and I’ll get
the smoker.’ The box was surprisingly heavy. I’d never thought
bees would weigh so much. The old man directed me to the far
corner where the hives were and told me to put the box down on
the one second from the end.
‘That’s been empty since last year,’ he said. ‘I’ve fixed it up so it
should take this lot.’
He took the box from me and opened the top and laid it on its
side, using his hat to fan fresh air into the mass of insects which
were just beginning to come out of their torpor.
‘Watch this. The scouts’ll fly out and some of them will check out
the hive. They’ll bring back word to the rest and they’ll bring the
queen in if they’re happy. Sometimes they’re not, and I’ve got to
try another hive.’
Everything went exactly as he said. The outrunners crawled out
of the box and steadied themselves before taking off. Some of
them looked as if they were jet lagged, but there were plenty of
them and it didn’t take long for them to find the hive entrance. As
the old man had said, the scouts started coming back and did their
little dance which encouraged more of their sisters to follow until
there was a sizable advance party crawling all over the new hive.
After about ten minutes, they must have been satisfied with their V
new piece of real estate for the whole hive started to crawl up the
37

together down in the Chandler of a night. If anybody knows about
Arden it’s old Jimmy.’
‘Who’s the major?’ I asked. ‘I can’t place him.’
‘Oh he’s one of the incomers. Used to be in the Argylls before he
mustered out. Still gets called the major. He’s fitted in with us old
timers. Good hand at the fishing too.’
‘He’d have to be good to get accepted among you lot down at the .
Chandler?
‘Och aye,’ he said, parodying an island accent. ‘He’s from up in
Lewis. A teuchter. Good man on a boat and good with the stories
an’ all. He’s done about as much in his lifetime as old Allison has.’
‘That’s saying something. I didn’t think anybody had been about
as much as old Jimmy.’
‘Have you been to see him yet?’
‘No. I just got in yesterday, so I thought I’d get settled first and
then go along and make a night of it. How’s he doing anyway? I
haven’t written to him in a month or so. I can’t even remember ifl
told him I was coming back.’
‘He’s doing all right. Bothered with the arthritis a lot over the
winter, but he still manages the organ on a Sunday, and if this hot
weather keeps up he’ll manage a day out for the mackerel later on. ’
Old Jimmy Allison. Pushing seventy, and maybe the best friend
I ever had.
Jimmy was the sub-editor on the Kirkland Herald when I was in
my teens and faced with the decision of going to university and the
unnerving prospect of becoming the teacher my father wanted me
to be. Grandad knew this was the last thing on my mind, and
Jimmy said he’d get me into newspapers. Grandad worked behind
the scenes through my mother and she got to dad and I did the rest
when I point—blank refused to go for further education. We had a
couple of wild nights and black arguments and I was maybe
throwing my whole future away, but Jimmy Allison got me a job as
a trainee reporter in the local paper and after a while everything
settled down.
Jimmy Allison was one of the most knowledgeable men I ever
knew. He was big and old and rugged, and even then his hands
were beginning to pain him as the arthritis started setting its teeth.
He knew newspapers inside out and had worked on them all. I
thought he’d been a newspaperman all his life, but I was wrong.
He’d done just about everything there is to do. The old man had
run away from home at fourteen to work the fishing boats up in the
Western Isles, then he’d been in the merchant navy, and he’d done
a stint of fighting in somebody’s army. After that he’d gone to
39

He took another bite and another swig, and laughed that short
rasp again. ‘Ha. Even McFall was shaking in his boots. We finally
got a rope around it. I was all for shooting the bugger, but McFall
said no, so we lassoed the thing like cowboys and managed to get
its legs together. It took five of us to drag it down the hill to his pen.
Then when we got it inside, McFall says to us to stand back and he
goes in to cut the rope. He took one slice and that big bugger was
on its feet like lightning and McFall almost gelded himself jumping
over the fence. That boar took a snap at his boot just as he was
going over and he landed right smack on the crossbar. He let out
such a squeal it sounded just like the pig, and after that he showed
us his boot. There was a rip the length of your hand right down the
sole. Looked like it was razor cut, and they were no shop-bought
boots neither. McFa1l said he got them up at McKenzie’s at
Balloch, who does the farmers’ boots and the soles were nigh—on an
inch thick.’
‘He was lucky,’ I said.
‘Sure he was. That animal could have taken his leg off in one go.
And he’s even bigger than Old Grunt. I’m as sure as hell glad I
don’t have that to worry about. I’ve still got the goats and the
Jersey. Them and the bees and what I grow here’s just enough for
me.’
He stopped for a moment, then went on.
‘I reckon you’ve been away quite a while. There’ll be a lot about
this place that you’ll have forgotten about and then it’ll jump back
up and hit you smack in the face. Good things too, I don’t doubt. I
hope you get settled back in quick. What is it you plan to do with
yourself?’
‘I’m giving myself a break from newspapers. I’ve always
promised myself I’d write books, so I’m going to give it a try and
see if I can. If not I’ll go back into journalism again.’
‘J im seems to have a lot of faith in you, so I reckon you’ll give it a
fair go,’ he said.
‘I’ll have to take that as a compliment.’
‘You do that, young Nicky. And come back any time.’
‘That’s a promise. I’ll do that.’
‘Go and see Jimmy soon as you can.’
‘OK, that’s another promise,’ I said, needlessly, because I had
already decided to go see him the following day.
‘Oh, and don’t forget to come up to the Chandler any night.
You’ll like the major.’ A
I made a third promise and thanked him for the tea and the
sandwich and left the cottage. He came to the door and waved me
41

He took another bite and another swig, and laughed that short
rasp again. ‘Ha. Even McFall was shaking in his boots. We finally
got a rope around it. I was all for shooting the bugger, but McFall
said no, so we lassoed the thing like cowboys and managed to get
its legs together. It took five of us to drag it down the hill to his pen.
Then when we got it inside, McFall says to us to stand back and he
goes in to cut the rope. He took one slice and that big bugger was
on its feet like lightning and McFall almost gelded himself jumping
over the fence. That boar took a snap at his boot just as he was
going over and he landed right smack on the crossbar. He let out
such a squeal it sounded just like the pig, and after that he showed
us his boot. There was a rip the length of your hand right down the
sole. Looked like it was razor cut, and they were no shop-bought
boots neither. McFa1l said he got them up at McKenzie’s at
Balloch, who does the farmers’ boots and the soles were nigh—on an
inch thick.’
‘He was lucky,’ I said.
‘Sure he was. That animal could have taken his leg off in one go.
And he’s even bigger than Old Grunt. I’m as sure as hell glad I
don’t have that to worry about. I’ve still got the goats and the
Jersey. Them and the bees and what I grow here’s just enough for
me.’
He stopped for a moment, then went on.
‘I reckon you’ve been away quite a while. There’ll be a lot about
this place that you’ll have forgotten about and then it’ll jump back
up and hit you smack in the face. Good things too, I don’t doubt. I
hope you get settled back in quick. What is it you plan to do with
yourself?’
‘I’m giving myself a break from newspapers. I’ve always
promised myself I’d write books, so I’m going to give it a try and
see if I can. If not I’ll go back into journalism again.’
‘J im seems to have a lot of faith in you, so I reckon you’ll give it a
fair go,’ he said.
‘I’ll have to take that as a compliment.’
‘You do that, young Nicky. And come back any time.’
‘That’s a promise. I’ll do that.’
‘Go and see Jimmy soon as you can.’
‘OK, that’s another promise,’ I said, needlessly, because I had
already decided to go see him the following day.
‘Oh, and don’t forget to come up to the Chandler any night.
You’ll like the major.’ A
I made a third promise and thanked him for the tea and the
sandwich and left the cottage. He came to the door and waved me
41

off before turning down the path and round the back of his little
house to whichever of the million and one jobs his life as a
smallholder required.
I walked down the path from Mr Bennett’s and was about to take
the right turn to get back on to the main road when on a whim I
turned left up the main path where, a few hundred yards along,
McFall’s small farm stood.
I was curious about that pig. I approached the farm and skirted
the yard on the pebble track that took me behind the byre and into
the field beyond. There was the pig pen. I could see the pink shapes
of the sows moving about and adjacent to that was a thick wooden
fence — not just thick, it was made of solid pine logs — which was
obviously the boar’s domain. As I neared the pen I could hear the
snufiling grunt of the big animal, and the squelching, sucking noise
as it pulled each trotter out of the mud.
Mr Bennett had been right. This thing was huge. I stood and
leaned against the chest—high spar and looked over. The movement
must have caught the boar’s eye, for it twisted its head in a
snapping gesture of annoyance, then turned and looked at me.
Old Grunt had been a big beast. This one was massive. It stood
and looked at me from under those big flapping ears in that
truculent, heavy—jawed way that pigs have, its little eyes glaring at
me while it snufiled air in and out of its upturned snout rapidly like
a pair of bellows. A trickle of saliva dripped from the corner of its
mouth as it continued chewing whatever it had rooted up, and with
every movement of the mandible I could see those glistening white
tusks like razors move up and down.
‘Hey mister,’ a high-pitched voice shouted behind me. ‘Hey
mister, watch out for the pig.’
I turned and two small boys, who turned out to be the younger
members of McFall’s sizable brood came running towards me.
‘It’s all right. I was just having a look. It’s a big pig.’
‘He’s a big bad pig, my daddy says,’ the smaller of the boys told
me. ‘Boot, we call him, ’cos he bit off my daddy’s boot.’
‘Yes, he’s big all right. I knew his daddy a long time ago, when I
was your age.’
‘Pigs don’t have daddies. They’re just pigs.’
I wasn’t prepared to get into an argument. I nodded and smiled,
and turned to go.
‘D’you need any eggs, mister‘?’ one of the boys asked. ‘And
we’ve got milk as well.’
‘Not today, but I’ll come back again another time.’ V
‘All right then, but my dad says nobody is allowed near the pig.’
42

off before turning down the path and round the back of his little
house to whichever of the million and one jobs his life as a
smallholder required.
I walked down the path from Mr Bennett’s and was about to take
the right turn to get back on to the main road when on a whim I
turned left up the main path where, a few hundred yards along,
McFall’s small farm stood.
I was curious about that pig. I approached the farm and skirted
the yard on the pebble track that took me behind the byre and into
the field beyond. There was the pig pen. I could see the pink shapes
of the sows moving about and adjacent to that was a thick wooden
fence — not just thick, it was made of solid pine logs — which was
obviously the boar’s domain. As I neared the pen I could hear the
snufiling grunt of the big animal, and the squelching, sucking noise
as it pulled each trotter out of the mud.
Mr Bennett had been right. This thing was huge. I stood and
leaned against the chest—high spar and looked over. The movement
must have caught the boar’s eye, for it twisted its head in a
snapping gesture of annoyance, then turned and looked at me.
Old Grunt had been a big beast. This one was massive. It stood
and looked at me from under those big flapping ears in that
truculent, heavy—jawed way that pigs have, its little eyes glaring at
me while it snufiled air in and out of its upturned snout rapidly like
a pair of bellows. A trickle of saliva dripped from the corner of its
mouth as it continued chewing whatever it had rooted up, and with
every movement of the mandible I could see those glistening white
tusks like razors move up and down.
‘Hey mister,’ a high-pitched voice shouted behind me. ‘Hey
mister, watch out for the pig.’
I turned and two small boys, who turned out to be the younger
members of McFall’s sizable brood came running towards me.
‘It’s all right. I was just having a look. It’s a big pig.’
‘He’s a big bad pig, my daddy says,’ the smaller of the boys told
me. ‘Boot, we call him, ’cos he bit off my daddy’s boot.’
‘Yes, he’s big all right. I knew his daddy a long time ago, when I
was your age.’
‘Pigs don’t have daddies. They’re just pigs.’
I wasn’t prepared to get into an argument. I nodded and smiled,
and turned to go.
‘D’you need any eggs, mister‘?’ one of the boys asked. ‘And
we’ve got milk as well.’
‘Not today, but I’ll come back again another time.’ V
‘All right then, but my dad says nobody is allowed near the pig.’
42

‘Don’t worry, I won’t go near Boot. Honest}
‘OK mlster. That’s all right.’
As I walked away across the field I heard a crunch from behind
me. I turned to look and the big boar was up against the pine fence,
gnawing at the logs. Great jagged splinters were peeling off the
wood under the enormous force of those teeth.
Jimmy Allison welcomed me with a huge smile on his broad face
when I arrived on his doorstep the next day. I had bought a bottle
of Glenlivet ten year old in a presentation box and went to the bank
for a new cheque~book and some cash. It only took five minutes to
saunter round past the harbour to west Westbay and along
Kirkland Avenue with its rows of pollarded lime trees to the two-
storey end house where Jimmy Allison had lived since I could
remember.
‘Not a phone call, and not a letter,’ he said, his rich, deep voice
booming out of the porch. ‘Not even a postcard to tell me you were
coming back.’
‘Nonsense, I told you months ago,’ I countered.
‘Probably you did, but I can’t be expected to read all the letters
you write.’ He grinned and held out one of his big hands to take
mine. His grip was firm, but I almost winced in sympathy when I
felt the distorted knuckles under my thumb. He’d told me in his
letters, and the rare telephone conversation, that the arthritis had
been getting worse, and he was still undecided about my recom—
mendations for him to get the silicone injections.
‘Come in, come in,’ he boomed, clapping his other hand on my
shoulder, almost causing me to drop his Glenlivet.
‘Here, I brought you some medicine,’ I said, handing over the
package. He knew what it was, of course, but pretended not to as
he always did.
‘For me? That’s nice. What is it?’
‘Sun-tan lotion, for use during the heat wave,’ I said.
He winked, and beamed broadly again, his grizzled face creasing
into parentheses, and let me inside.
‘You’ll have one, huh?’ he asked, holding the bottle aloft to
admire the amber in the light streaming in through his kitchen
window.
‘Too early for me,’ I said, ‘but you go ahead.’
‘Well, just a wee one,’ and he poured himself a tiny measure and
sipped from a faceted Edinburgh crystal glass.
‘I suppose I can forgive the lack of correspondence just for that,’
he said, smacking his lips.
‘You’ve not been too hot in that department either,’ I
43

dating from around the granting of the Burgh charter and beyond.
‘Look here,’ he said, ‘just south of the dyke. I noticed these
mounds when I saw some pictures taken from a helicopter going up
to the base. They are well inside the wall, but they run parallel to it
from one side to the other. It’s as if there are two walls.’
‘Maybe the Picts thought the rock was a good fort too.’
‘That’s what you would think. But Professor Sannholm has I
found old Pictish relics all over the mud flats and in the fields
surrounding Ardhmor. But there’s never been anything dis-
covered on Ardhmor itself.’
I looked at the map. The mounds were definitely parallel to the
more recent fortification which itself was paralleled by the stream
of Strowan’s Burn which forked behind the farm and sent its waters
east and west into the bays on either side of the peninsula.
‘I remember the first time you told me about Strowan’s Burn,’ I
said, looking over the old map which Jimmy had re-drawn a dozen
times in the past twenty years. ‘I’d never thought about it until you
told me it was Saint Rowan’s Burn.’
‘Not a lot of people know that still,’ Jimmy said. ‘But I don’t
think he was a saint. The name Rowan is really ancient. If there
had been a monk or a hermit around here, it would have been
somewhere in the records. Most of them were canonised, at least
by the local folk, but you’ve got to remember that most of them
lived before Christianity arrived in these parts. Maybe they were
the equivalent of sorcerers. Mumbo-jumbo men, or even just
warriors.’
‘But there was a legend about St Rowan,’ I said. ‘I remember
you told me years ago.’
‘Yes, I found it in a translated version of a field report of one of
Columba’s people from Iona who came down this way to convert
the tribes. They had a pretty good organisation, even then. They’d
send out their monks to make an impression and dig out the folk
culture so they could change it around to suit the Christian
message. The St Rowan story is just like Old Moses, you know.’
‘l remember,’ I said. ‘He was supposed to have struck the rock
with his rowan spear to bring the water of life to the people.’
‘That’s it. And that’s where Strowan’s Burn is supposed to have
come from, although why he should have bothered in a place like
this I can’t imagine. We’ve got more streams and rivers than we
need.
‘Anyway the professor found a wicker fence and a few other
odds and ends last year just before the start of winter, but they’re ~
arranging a proper dig in a couple of weeks.’
45

dating from around the granting of the Burgh charter and beyond.
‘Look here,’ he said, ‘just south of the dyke. I noticed these
mounds when I saw some pictures taken from a helicopter going up
to the base. They are well inside the wall, but they run parallel to it
from one side to the other. It’s as if there are two walls.’
‘Maybe the Picts thought the rock was a good fort too.’
‘That’s what you would think. But Professor Sannholm has I
found old Pictish relics all over the mud flats and in the fields
surrounding Ardhmor. But there’s never been anything dis-
covered on Ardhmor itself.’
I looked at the map. The mounds were definitely parallel to the
more recent fortification which itself was paralleled by the stream
of Strowan’s Burn which forked behind the farm and sent its waters
east and west into the bays on either side of the peninsula.
‘I remember the first time you told me about Strowan’s Burn,’ I
said, looking over the old map which Jimmy had re-drawn a dozen
times in the past twenty years. ‘I’d never thought about it until you
told me it was Saint Rowan’s Burn.’
‘Not a lot of people know that still,’ Jimmy said. ‘But I don’t
think he was a saint. The name Rowan is really ancient. If there
had been a monk or a hermit around here, it would have been
somewhere in the records. Most of them were canonised, at least
by the local folk, but you’ve got to remember that most of them
lived before Christianity arrived in these parts. Maybe they were
the equivalent of sorcerers. Mumbo-jumbo men, or even just
warriors.’
‘But there was a legend about St Rowan,’ I said. ‘I remember
you told me years ago.’
‘Yes, I found it in a translated version of a field report of one of
Columba’s people from Iona who came down this way to convert
the tribes. They had a pretty good organisation, even then. They’d
send out their monks to make an impression and dig out the folk
culture so they could change it around to suit the Christian
message. The St Rowan story is just like Old Moses, you know.’
‘l remember,’ I said. ‘He was supposed to have struck the rock
with his rowan spear to bring the water of life to the people.’
‘That’s it. And that’s where Strowan’s Burn is supposed to have
come from, although why he should have bothered in a place like
this I can’t imagine. We’ve got more streams and rivers than we
need.
‘Anyway the professor found a wicker fence and a few other
odds and ends last year just before the start of winter, but they’re ~
arranging a proper dig in a couple of weeks.’
45

‘Will you be there?’ I asked.
‘Oh, I suppose I’ll go down and potter around, but I don’t get
involved in any of the heavy work. I just like to chew the fat with
the professor. We see eye to eye on a lot of things.’
‘And are you planning to get any fishing done. Mr Bennett was
telling me the hands are giving you a bad time.’
‘Yes, he said he’d seen you. Word gets around quick here.’
‘And you were always the iirst to know. I know that. I got more
stories from your contacts here than I’ve had ever since,’ I said.
‘I wouldn’t say that. You’ve been doing quite well. You
shouldn’t undersell yourself, but I gather you’ll be working on a
book just now.’
‘Yes, once I settle in, although I’ve hardly had a chance yet. I
was down at the shore the first night I got back, looking for the men
off that boat.’
‘Yes, I heard that too. Murdo was saying there wasn’t a sign of
the lifeboat}
‘No, we searched around for a couple of hours. It was a terrible
night down there, but there was nothing at all. I don’t think they
could have come ashore there.’
‘I don’t know, it’s a strange place.’
‘How do you mean, strange?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ Jimmy said, and started rolling up the big map.
‘No, go on,’ I insisted. ‘What’s funny about Ardhmor?’
Jimmy turned to look at me, then looked away, shaking his
head. I reached across and grabbed his sleeve.
‘What is it?’
‘You’ll think I’m rambling,’ he said. ‘And I don’t want you to
think the old man’s getting senile.’
‘That’ll never happen to you. But really, I’m interested in why
you say it’s a strange place, because something strange happened
to me when we were down looking for that boat.’
Jimmy turned suddenly and looked directly at me. There was
something in his eyes, maybe concern, maybe surprise.
‘What happened‘?’
‘I’m not sure. But just when we got past the old dyke .... ’
‘The Roman wall,’ he corrected me.
‘Yes, the wall. We had just gone back there when I started
getting scared. I mean really shaky scared. As if I was being
threatened. But there was no reason for it. I was in a panic the
whole time, but none of the others seemed to be bothered. Then,
when I was coming back with the others, I was last in line on the
track up to the farm and I got caught in the brambles at the edge of
46

the path. But at the time, I was in such a state that I thought the
trailers were actually trying to grab me for Christ’s sake. It was
weird.’ I looked at him, and laughed. ‘Now you’ll think I’m
rambling.’
‘No,’ he said, and his voice was deadly serious. ‘I don’t think that
at all. I’ve had that feeling myself. Once a long time ago, and the
other only a week ago. As if I wasn’t wanted there.’
‘That’s exactly how I felt. But that’s nonsense. How can you feel
not wanted in a place}
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to find out for years. It’s a wrong
place.’
‘Mr Bennett said that yesterday. He said Ardhmor’s a wrong
place, and he said everybody knew that.’
‘Well, I think he’s right. But not everybody knows it.’
‘I remember as a kid, my mother used to threaten me with all
sorts of hard times if she ever caught me down there. That was after
the accident, remember?’
‘I remember that night all right, though I’m surprised you do.
You were unconscious for a week.’
‘You remember more than me. I can’t recall a thing about it,
only what my dad and grandad told me.’
‘You’d been missing for a couple of days. You and a couple of
your friends. Then old man Swanson found a jacket in the bushes
at the edge of his farm and there was a big search all over that rock.
That’s where we found the three of you, under a rockfall. You and
the girl and that poor boy who’s never been the same since.
Nobody knew how you got there or why you were there, but you
were in bad shape by the time we got you out.’
‘Yeah, I gather I was out of it for a long time, but surely it was
just an accident. I mean, I was always a bit wild as a kid, always
climbing and falling out of trees.’
‘Oh, sure, that’s what everybody said. But what I’m saying is
that in the spring of that year, after they’d done the dig on the
Roman wall, I was down in Ardhmor one night looking for
something I’d lost, and I got a dose of the scaries. I came out of that
place like a bat out of hell, and I was no youngster then, but I swear
I would have passed Roger Bannister on the straight.’
‘I often wonder what had happened then,’ I said. ‘But I suppose
we’ll never know.’
‘No, I suppose not, but that was a bad summer here in Arden, a
right bad summer. That was the year Henson down at Kilmalid
Farm fell under his plough and got his hands near torn off. Then V
there were the bull terriers they were using for the fights down at
47

the sewer pipe tore up that fellow that was breeding them. Forget
his name now, but the sergeant, Jack Bruce it was in those days,
said it was the worst thing he ever saw. Those beasts ate the man
alive.
‘Funny thing was, after all the things that happened that year,
they stopped just after the end of summer, just about the time we
pulled you out from under the rocks. I remember your grandad at
the time. He was worried out of his head, ’cause he was saying you
were the latest victims.
‘I remember asking him what he meant, and he just said "This
cursed place has taken them." But it happened, although for a
while it was touch and go.’
‘What do you think he meant?’
‘I don’t think. I know what he meant. There’s some people
around here with long memories, and there have been bad years
before. Years when some terrible things have happened.’
‘How do you mean?’ I asked.
Jimmy finished off his coffee in one gulp. He put the cup down
between the mementoes that crowded the little table beside his
chair, then turned to me again.
‘What I mean is that there were fourteen people died that
summer,’ he said. ‘And it wasn’t the first time. In 1906 there was
another bad year when there were thirty deaths — and I mean
killings. It was in the papers at the time. They thought the whole
town had gone mad. They thought people had gone crazy in the
heat. Apparently it was the hottest summer in living memory then.
‘And before that in 1720 there was the massacre at the priory,
where the seminary is now, and they had to send a sheriff down
from Glasgow with an armed militia. This goes way back. There’s
no rhyme nor reason to it, and I bet if the records were clearer we’d
find more bad years going down through the ages.’
‘But can you say it’s abnormal? I mean every town’s got a history
of tragedy,’ I said.
‘That’s true, but Arden’s history is updated every now and
again, like a catalogue of disaster. I know, for I’ve been through
the records, even the old parish ones that go back for centuries,
and a lot of old dusty books besides. I told you about the legend of
St Rowan, but there’s other ones too. I’ll dig them out for you
some time, but I can assure you that some of the old Gaelic writings
show that the old folk believed there was something wrong with
this place. With Ardhmor. They called it the Sleeping Rock, and
they had an idea it woke up every now and again.
‘Anyway,’ Jimmy said. ‘Enough of this. Come on and I’ll make
48

us a decent coffee this time, and you can tell me all about what
you’ve been up to .... And I want to hear about this book you’re
planning to write}
49

us a decent coffee this time, and you can tell me all about what
you’ve been up to .... And I want to hear about this book you’re
planning to write}
49