Auchinmurn Isle
Present Day
A custard-coloured moon was shedding its pale light on the ancient standing stones at the Devil’s Dyke, high on the island of Auchinmurn. Em worked quickly by the light of her torch, scraping the yellow lichen from the stones into a small plastic bag. If everything went to plan, this extra lichen and the stone scrapings would be the final element for her painting. She hoped the stone would be ancient enough and would make the triptych more authentic.
Through the gloaming Em could see the dark shape of a crofter’s crumbling black-house. She froze in shock at the feeling of an ice-cold hand on the back of her neck.
‘Tell yer story walking, lass,’ growled the old man. His hand slid to her hoodie and hauled her away from the stones.
‘Hey,’ Em exclaimed, struggling in his strong grip. ‘You’re hurting me! What do you want? What have I done?’
Her mind slid wildly through the possibilities as the old man pushed her wordlessly through the forest of tall pines and down the craggy hillside. She wasn’t trespassing. As far as she knew, there was no preservation order on the stones. Why was he so angry?
Despite his age – Em judged him to be as old as her grandfather – the man was surprisingly fast. Every few steps Em had to skip a little to keep up.
It was the middle of the night and a chilling fog was seeping in from the sea, covering the ground. Em kept stubbing her toes on roots. The man’s stride was long and unrelenting.
‘You’re one of them Abbey weans, aren’t ye?’ he barked.
Em wriggled her shoulders, trying to slip out of her hoodie, but the straps of her backpack made freeing herself impossible. ‘What if I am?’
He didn’t answer.
They slowed a little as they crested the hill and began to climb down towards the footpath. Em decided to try another tack, going limp and relaxing every part of her body. Instead of slowing, the man only lowered his arm, letting Em slide across the rough ground behind him. Her shins smashed against a rock.
‘Ow! Now you’re really hurting me!’
‘Ach, stop yer whining. Yer no’ a wean any more.’
Em scrambled back to her feet, her eyes watering with pain. She could feel one shin bleeding inside her jeans. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she demanded, trying to sound braver than she felt.
Could she get her hand into her pocket and reach her sketchpad? And if she did, what might she draw to free herself?
‘Keep yer hands where I can see them,’ he said sharply. ‘I know about you lot and all yer sorcery. Ah’ll no’ stand for it on this island any more.’ And he smacked her behind the knees with the long wooden stick that he was carrying.
Em was feeling seriously scared now. Who was this man? How did he know about her abilities? About the Abbey? More importantly, how had he managed to sneak up on her? She should have sensed his presence.
Em didn’t recognize her captor as he yanked her over the fence that bordered the public footpath. A long time ago, a whole village of crofters had eked out a meagre living from potato farming and raising sheep on the island. According to her grandfather, only one or two families still lived in the stone-and-peat cottages near the shore, mostly surviving on the occasional odd job and taking tourists on fishing trips. She’d spotted this one tending to a sheep tangled in a briar on the far side of the hill when she’d last sneaked up here. She’d thought he hadn’t noticed her.
‘I wasn’t doing anything wrong,’ she said defiantly.
‘That’s not for you to say.’
Em could smell the pipe tobacco in the top pocket of the crofter’s tatty canvas field jacket. His cap was old, its mud-caked brim resting on bushy grey eyebrows. A front tooth was missing, and the others were yellow with black roots exposed. It gave him an ugly leer.
The only emotion Em could feel emanating from the crofter was a staunch resolve and a deep satisfaction. This worried Em more than if she had sensed terrible danger. The more she glanced at him in the moonlight, the more she could feel a drumming in the back of her head.
The last part of the climb down to the footpath was mostly on flat rock. The crofter slid down on his haunches, forcing Em to do the same.
‘What were you doing scratching away at them stones when you should be in bed?’
So he’d been watching her. Now Em was truly worried.
‘It’s for a project,’ she mumbled, trying to keep herself from tumbling down the slope. She concentrated her imagination. Inspiriting the old man wouldn’t hurt him. It would just calm him enough for her to wriggle free and get back to the Abbey before anyone knew she was missing.
As she sent the first wave of calm towards him, a sharp pain stabbed behind her eyes. For a moment, everything went black.
The next thing she knew, she was lying on the footpath, her hands and feet bound in plastic ties, feeling sick. This old man had somehow blocked her inspiriting powers.
The old crofter leaned on the fence marking the footpath and pulled a walkie-talkie from inside his jacket.
‘I’ve got the lass,’ he said into the handset. ‘Aye, she’s trussed up like a wild pig.’
Em struggled to get back on her feet. The old man leaned over and cuffed her sharply behind the ear.
‘Settle down.’
Em was so shocked at being smacked, she didn’t feel any pain for the first few seconds. Then her ear throbbed to life, hot and burning. The crofter tucked his crook under his arm, scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder, carrying her along the footpath away from the Abbey.