Cape Wrath (2 page)

Serene moments passed as they strolled down into the glen, the sighing of the sea falling gradually behind them, the sounds of insects taking over. As the ground levelled out, the dry, rocky soil of the upper slopes slowly softened, and soon they were ploughing through knee-deep clumps of bilberry, the early season berries only just starting to redden. The heather grew thick and springy under their feet, and was now laced with sundew and asphodel. As often as not, it concealed broken sticks and loose, greasy stones, which made the going progressively more arduous. On top of this, the heat grew steadily. At last Professor Mercy stopped and unslung her backpack.

“Climate control, folks,” she announced.

They halted thankfully, broke out a few bottles of water, then began to strip off their waterproofs and sweaters, and pack them away. As they did, Alan glanced up and spied, framed between two distant hillsides, the glass compartment of the lighthouse's lantern-gallery. The station was unmanned of course, as so many were these days, and, as far as he knew, located at the end of a spit of land jutting out from Craeghatir's most north-westerly point. He'd seen many lighthouses before, but it never ceased to amaze him how they always had the opposite effect from the one you'd expect. Instead of reassuring you that civilisation wasn't so far away after all, they usually served to reinforce the unnerving impression that, yes!, you really
were
on some far-flung outpost in the very back of beyond, a long way from the nearest ambulance and even further from the nearest pub.

And appropriately, from that moment on, the island seemed to possess the aura of a place untouched by time. Once the lighthouse had slipped out of view again, there wasn't a trace of mankind; no litter, no habitation, no tracks or paths of any sort. Down at the base of the central depression, which was perhaps 70 to 80 feet lower than its outer cliff-tops, the soggy peat gave way to deep, clear pools, which the explorers had to circumnavigate. The air around these was alive with midges; there was also a drone of bees – clearly there'd be honeycombs somewhere close at hand. To either side, the pine trees closed in, but as always in true Caledonian woodland, the spaces between them were vast and airy, the floor-ways lying knee-deep in undisturbed drifts of fallen needles. Aside from the bees, there was a still, tranquil silence.

The archaeologists moved in straggling single-file, but Clive and the professor strolled ahead, savouring every new moment. In their many years working in the faculty, they'd been together on field-trips all over the British Isles, and, perhaps in true kindred-spirit fashion, had at length become lovers. This was an unspoken fact of life back on campus, though few would openly acknowledge it for fear that it might reflect on the twosome in professional terms, not that those who didn't know them would automatically believe it. At first glance, Clive wasn't the sort of bloke you'd expect to win a woman like Professor Mercy. He was big and ungainly, and, with a constant sleepy grin on his face, looked disarmingly like a teddy bear. But, as all his students knew, he had hidden depths. As well as possessing a nice, easy-going character, he was a good conversationalist, had an infectious sense of humour and knew his subject inside-out. He was also, like the woman in his life, completely at home in the great outdoors. What Clive didn't know about the basic lore of the British countryside wasn't worth knowing.

“Very different from the Western Isles, isn't it,” he commented, as they roamed along. “The Western Isles are generally treeless. Soil's too poor, rocks too porous.”

“This place is a natural bowl,” Professor Mercy replied. “Even though it's limestone, the rainfall gathers, keeps everything well-watered.”

Slightly behind them on the path, David Thorson had observed much the same thing.

“Funny no-one's ever settled on it,” he commented.

“Well they did, didn't they,” Craig put in. “Speaking of which … I wonder whereabouts
that
cave actually is?”

“I was wondering when someone was going to mention that,” Alan said.

Craig shrugged. “Well … it's only a story, of course. There might not even be a cave.”

David was interested, however. “What're you guys on about?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Craig replied with a grin. “It's bugging Alan.”

Alan turned and gave him a look. “Tell him, if you want. Doesn't bother me if he ends up shitting bricks afterwards.”

Craig sniggered, so Nug took up the story: “In 1115, some Irish monks tried to settle here, but according to the chronicle they didn't last a month.”

“Why?” David asked.

“We've only got their word for it, of course, but apparently they went home again telling stories about strange noises … snuffles, snarls. They even wrote that the devil left his claw-marks on the door to their hermitage.”

David gave this some thought as they plodded along. “Probably just that there weren't any altar boys to shag,” he finally said.

“Very cynical for someone so young, David,” Alan replied.

“Well it's a crock, isn't it?”

“I sincerely hope so,” Craig said.

David didn't say anything else, and a few minutes later he'd stridden off ahead, catching up with Clive and the Professor.

Alan shook his head. “Told you he'd end up crapping himself. He probably hasn't even camped before, apart from in his mum's back-garden.”

“I'm sure he'll have his uses,” Craig replied.

Alan nodded. “Oh yeah. He'll ensure we get the funding to come back again in August.”

Nug hooted with laughter. “Now who's being a cynic?”

 

The cave-mouth was a dank black aperture under thick tufts of mat-grass. As an entrance-way, it was roughly triangular, about seven feet by eight feet at its highest and widest points. Nothing stirred inside it, but a smell of earth, roots and damp, decaying leaf-rubble exhaled from its deep and hidden recesses. It could have been any cave-mouth had it not been for the crude mark of a cross, scored on the high stone lintel.

“They actually lived
here
?” said Alan, with a shiver.

Beside him, Nug gazed with fascination into the dripping depths. “In winter they'd probably need the shelter. I don't suppose they had much choice.”

Alan glanced around. “I wonder what happened to this door the devil supposedly left scratches on?”

“Give us a break, man. It was 900 years ago. Probably turned to dust by now.”

That of course made sense, though standing as they now were, confronting hard evidence that at least part of the legend about Craeghatir was true, it was hard not to wonder if other stories were as well. Joseph Sizergh, a mariner ship-wrecked here in 1798, had never been rescued alive. His diary was found floating in the sea by a fishing-boat. For the most part, the bloodied, water-logged pages had been unreadable, though enough was gleaned from them to divert the boat to Craeghatir, where he appeared to have endured several months of “ungodly horrors”. A search was duly mounted for the castaway, but in vain. No trace of Sizergh was ever found. The modern theory held that, driven mad by desolation, he'd finally attempted the perilous six-mile swim to the Scottish mainland, and inevitably, had failed; though others wondered if something more sinister than loneliness had been the cause of his suicidal bid to escape.

Since then, mainly from the days when the lighthouse was manned, other weird stories had emerged; concerning unfamiliar runes cut into tree-trunks, and curious items – bones, shells, dead seabirds and the like – found set out in bizarre but deliberate patterns. At least one lighthouse keeper had lost his mind on Craeghatir, throwing himself from the lantern-gallery, while another had reported a dirge of odd howls, wolf-like in tone.

“I wonder if this cave goes to any depth?” Alan finally said.

Nug shrugged. “Can't go too far, can it. I mean, we're on an island.”

Alan mused on this. “Well … only one way to find out.” And he switched on his torch.

Light stabbed forwards, at first showing only the dirt floor and its rubble of dead leaves and dried pine-needles, though gradually the other dimensions of the cave became visible. The twosome pressed into it. The walls were of stippled limestone and dripping with moisture. Tangles of roots and rank vegetation hung down from above. There was a rich loamy smell, tainted slightly by decay. Beneath their feet, the forest-type rubbish petered out and soon they were walking on stones and hard-packed earth.

“How far are we going in?” Nug asked.

“Dunno,” Alan mumbled. “I thought it would've stopped before now.”

And then, abruptly, they came to the back of the cave. The ceiling sloped down with such suddenness, that Alan almost cracked his head on it. He stopped sharp and shone the light around … to find a complete dead-end.

“This seems to be it,” he said. “Good, let's go back …”

Nug sniggered. “Hang about. We've got to check for hidden doors first; secret passages.”

Humouring him, Alan roved the torchlight over every possible nook and cranny. “Doesn't do any harm to check, I suppose.”

“Better check what you're standing in, too,” Nug added. “This is probably the part of the cave those monks used as a crapper.”

Alan looked slowly round at him. “Nice.”

His buddy shrugged. “Hey, there wasn't much hygiene back in …”

Then he sensed the presence. They both did. The sudden, unexpected presence of a figure standing directly behind them, silent and still in the darkness.

“What the …”

Both turned violently round, fists clenched and ready.

But it was only Linda. Regarding them critically.

“Jesus, Linda!”
Alan snapped. “You
crept
up!”

“No I didn't,” she replied. “I walked.”

“Hmm.” Nug glanced around at the low ceiling and damp walls. “Poor acoustics in here, probably.”

Linda appraised them both by the light of the torch … and found them wanting. “Fearless fellas, eh? I'm really impressed,” she said after a moment. “Anyway, assuming you two haven't discovered anything interesting – the idea of which was a bit of a laugh in itself in my opinion – the Prof wants you at the camp.” She turned and set off back.

Rather awkwardly, the men followed.

“Why?” Nug asked her as they emerged into daylight. “Something come up?”

“Mission briefing, apparently,” she said. “The Prof wants to make sure we're all singing from the same song-sheet.”

From the cave mouth, they walked back together, carefully picking their way around the 200 yards or so of bog and pool, until they'd reached the first cover of the trees, where the rest of the party had pitched their tents and were now starting a small cooking-fire. They had opted to bivouac here, at the western end of the glen, because it was well protected from rainfall by the spreading boughs of mature pines, was close to fresh water though in itself located on higher, dryer ground, and at the same time sheltered by the island's inner north-western slope from the perishing, often wringing-wet Atlantic winds … but also because Professor Mercy had spotted the monks' former hermitage, and suspected that this place might well be “the historic heart of the island”, as she put it. As experienced outdoors folk, they'd each of them brought a single tent, all made from nylon and double-skinned, which helped reduce condensation within and was proof against insect infiltration. They'd erected them in a circle around the space cleared for the fire, but not too close to it, for obvious reasons.

Alan was pleased to see that Linda had placed hers on the other side of the camp-fire from Barry's, and couldn't resist commenting on this as they strolled back together. “Glad you've only brought a one-man tent,” he said confidentially.

She stopped and looked round at him. “And what would it matter to you if I'd brought a two-man?”

“Well, it might be a bit distracting. All that noise at night.”

She gave him a withering look, then started walking again. “Don't be pathetic, Alan. It doesn't suit you.”

“Me, pathetic?” he said, irritated. “What about you? Shacked up with that Charles Atlas wannabe, just to make a point!”

“I'm not shacked up with anyone,” she replied heatedly.

“Does
he
know that?”

“It's none of your business, is it!”

Detecting an atmosphere, Nug had walked ahead, but the warring duo were almost back among the tents now, so they had to lower their voices anyway. Even then, Alan didn't feel he could let it go. “What do you mean, ‘none of my business'? Jesus, Linda! Didn't we have something good going?”

“You're the one who played away,” the girl retorted.

“A sodding one-off!” he hissed. “At a party, when I was totally pissed.”

They were now within earshot of the others, several of whom had looked curiously round.