The Wings of Ruksh (2 page)

Neil and Clara MacLean looked at one another in amazement as their mother put a very large haggis in the middle of the table. As this was the third time in two weeks that she had given them haggis, Neil opened his mouth to protest strongly but closed it again as Clara frowned and tilted her head warningly towards their guest. Complaints would have to be made later, for Mr MacGregor, the janitor at their school, was lunching with them that day.

“Let me serve you some haggis, Angus,” Janet MacLean offered as she slit the skin with a knife and watched the steam rise as the haggis fell gently away. “John will be joining us in a minute. He’s been on the hill all morning.”

Angus MacGregor nodded understandingly. “Aye, it’s not an easy job being a Park Ranger on Arthur’s Seat with all the tourists around. He was telling me the other day that he’s had to work a lot of overtime lately.” He sat back in his chair and looked round the table. “I was hoping he might manage a game of darts this evening. It’d be like old times.”

Neil grinned. “He’ll be honoured, Mr MacGregor! It’s not every day that he gets the chance to play the Scottish champion, after all!”

Angus MacGregor reddened. Although his rise to fame in the darts’ world had made him a household name throughout Scotland, he hadn’t let it go to his head. “Ach, it’s not that way at all when your dad and I play — and fine you know it, young Neil.”

“Clara,” her mother smiled, “I can hear your dad in the kitchen. Will you give him a hand to bring in the neeps and tatties.”

“A grand meal, the haggis!” praised Mr MacGregor as
generous
spoonfuls were heaped onto his plate. “I was saying to my Maggie the other day that we ought to have it more often. There’s nothing like good Scottish food!”

John MacLean overheard this last remark as he brought the mashed potatoes into the dining room, followed by Clara who carefully carried a steaming bowl of heavily-buttered, mashed turnips. “Strange that you should say that,” he smiled, “I was reading in the paper just this morning that there has been a huge rise in the sale of haggis.”

“Not only haggis,” his wife remarked, passing the serving dishes round, “oatcakes, shortbread and Dundee cake as well. I bought a nice Dundee cake the other day from a shop in Princes Street. They had them on offer.”

The mention of Princes Street made Neil frown. “Isn’t Princes Street a bit much these days?” he queried. “I walked along it yesterday and the shop windows were totally over the top! Plastered in tartan!”

“It’s actually very nice,” his mother rejoined defensively, “very …
tasteful
. And they’ve got tartan carpets inside as well, you know. Some shops have even hung banners in their windows showing the arms and insignia of all the clans. It really makes you feel proud to be Scottish.”

“Aye,” agreed Mr MacGregor, “Edinburgh is looking very nice indeed. Even the High Street is full of old flags — and have you noticed that a lot more men are wearing the kilt?”

“It’s a real pity that women can’t wear proper kilts,” Janet MacLean mourned. “I was thinking of buying some tartan and having a long skirt made up.”

“What’s the matter with you, Mum?” Clara asked curiously. “You’ve never wanted to wear tartan before.”

“Well, I know, but it’s very fashionable these days. Everyone seems to be wearing it, haven’t you noticed?”

Ranger MacLean frowned uneasily. He
had
noticed the sudden passion for tartan that seemed to have gripped the country
and although it was undoubtedly good for tourism to have Scotland looking so uniquely Scottish, he objected to the
plastic
, tartan banners that now flapped from many government buildings.

“Actually, I was thinking of buying a kilt myself,” confided Mr MacGregor to the table in general, “but I’m not sure that I have the figure for it.”

Fortunately, at that precise moment, the MacLean’s cat, Mischief, came meowing round the table so none of the adults noticed the broad grin that split Neil’s face as he visualized the stocky figure of old MacGregor stomping up and down the playground in a kilt!

Clara also hid a grin as she slid from her chair and picked up the little cat.

“Goodness,” said Mr MacGregor in amazement, “that’s never the wee cat you took from the school, is it? My, she’s come on grand! I told you she’d put on weight with your mother to feed her.”

“Put her in the kitchen, Clara,” her mother instructed with a smile, “and give her some fish from the fridge if she’s hungry. She loves fish,” she confessed, looking round the table. “I know it’s expensive these days but the fishmonger slips me the odd bit for her now and then.”

“Aye,” MacGregor snorted, “it’s all the fault of these foreign boats! They’re out there every day, pinching our fish.”

Janet MacLean nodded. “I saw the news this morning and it wasn’t good. There seems to have been a real set-to last night between the Scottish and French fleets. A lot of nets were cut. It’s really getting out of hand you know, and that Marcel Bruiton, the French Foreign Minister, seems to be positively egging them on.”

“Well, if it goes on like this, it could develop into a
fully
-fledged war,” her husband said with a slight frown. “Bruiton really seems to have it in for us. The East Coast fishermen are absolutely furious and the French fishing fleet is huge, you
know. It outnumbers ours by at least three to one and, quite frankly, there’s not a lot our lads can do if the French trawlers gang up on them.”

“Can’t the Scottish parliament do anything?” queried Neil.

His father shook his head. “I don’t know, Neil. You’ll have to ask Sir James when you see him next. Now that he’s a Member of the Scottish Parliament, he’ll be able to tell you the ins and outs of it all.”

“Aye, he’s a good man, that Sir James! He certainly talks a lot more sense than that other fellow that got elected,” agreed Mr MacGregor.

“You mean the fellow with the long hair and fancy waistcoats — what’s his name — Ned Stuart?” Janet MacLean frowned disapprovingly.

“Come on, Janet,” excused the Ranger mildly, thinking back to the days of his youth, “Stuart’s young and most youngsters tend to dress a bit exotically, don’t they? From what I hear of him, he seems a pleasant enough chap.”

“Aye, but age makes a difference,” argued MacGregor, “and that Sir James has a much better head on his shoulders. I was reading one of his articles in
The Scotsman
only the other day. I didn’t know you knew him, though,” he added, curiosity tingeing his voice.

Although MacGregor knew nothing of their remarkable adventures with Sir James, the owner of a local distillery, he had, nevertheless, been unwittingly involved in their brush with magic and magicians. Mrs MacLean frowned warningly at her husband and quickly changed the subject of the
conversation
, for although all memory of faeries and magic carpets had been wiped from MacGregor’s mind, she was afraid that a chance word might recall his part in the adventure.

“You didn’t tell us about your anniversary dinner, Angus,” she remarked casually. “Maggie was telling me that you found a new Turkish restaurant in the High Street and went there.”

“Aye, we did,” he frowned at the memory.

“You don’t sound very impressed,” smiled the Ranger.

“Aye, well, there was nothing wrong with the food, you understand; we had a really good meal. I think it must have been the atmosphere of the place. It’s down one of yon thin, dark passages near the old White Horse Inn. An odd place for a restaurant and,” he struggled to express his feelings, “… it was very foreign.”

“Well, you’d expect that of a Turkish restaurant, wouldn’t you?” the Ranger remarked reasonably.

“Were there many people there?” queried Mrs MacLean. “A full restaurant’s usually a sign of good food.”

“Oh, aye, it was quite crowded and when I told the waiters it was our anniversary, they found us a good table and made us feel the most important people in the place! No one else got half the attention we did.”

“That was nice,” said Mrs MacLean, spooning more haggis onto his plate.

Mr MacGregor put his knife and fork down and pondered. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said slowly. “I wouldn’t say that at all. They were all smiles with their turbans and incense but all the time … it’s stupid, I know … but looking back on it, I realize that I felt uneasy the whole time I was there.”

The Ranger sat back in his chair and regarded Angus MacGregor thoughtfully. He wasn’t, the Ranger knew, the most imaginative of men and he wondered what had happened to cause him such disquiet. “Perhaps you should mention it to the local police and ask them to take a look,” he suggested.

MacGregor snorted. “Aye, if they can find it!”

There was a slightly stunned silence as they eyed him in surprise.

“I tell you,” he said defensively, “I was suspicious of the place and one lunch break I … well, I walked over from the school to take a look at it in daylight.” His voice sank dramatically and his accent broadened as he leant towards them. “Without a word of a lie, I’m tellin’ ye, I walked up and down yon bit of the High
Street ten times over and do you think I could find the entrance to the close? It was a narrow entrance, I admit, but I couldn’t find it anywhere, and I haven’t found it yet, even though I look for it every time I pass. It’s no’ there, I tell you. It’s disappeared! Completely disappeared!”

It was a dark night and raining hard. Although the street lamps threw streaks of flickering light over the wet pavements of the High Street, Neil felt a shiver of apprehension at a subtle
darkening
of the atmosphere that seemed to make the street
narrower
and the surrounding buildings taller, shabbier and more forbidding, as though they’d moved a hundred years back in time. He moved closer to Sir James and saw that Clara, walking under her mother’s umbrella, was also looking apprehensive; her hand clutching at the firestone pendant she was wearing round her neck.

“Do you think we’ll find the restaurant?” Neil whispered to Sir James. “Old MacGregor might have been exaggerating the whole thing. I mean, restaurants don’t just disappear, do they?”

Sir James smiled at him, his eyes alert. “I wasn’t sure when we started out but now …” he scanned a street that seemed strangely deserted, “now I’m pretty sure we’ll find it. There’s magic abroad tonight, Neil! Can’t you feel the change in the atmosphere? I’m not sure if your mother shouldn’t take you both home and leave your dad and me to deal with this.”

“No way!” Neil and Clara chorused. “We’re in this together. Even Mum doesn’t want to back out! Do you, Mum?”

Mrs MacLean shook her head, not quite knowing what all the fuss was about. “Of course not,” she said. “I think it was a lovely idea to come here. Angus and Maggie said the food was excellent.”

Neil looked at his mother sharply. Although she had been inside Arthur’s Seat and had met the MacArthurs, the magic people who live in the hill, she hadn’t been directly involved in their adventures and had never been given a firestone. Indeed,
she had never needed one, but without a stone of her own she had no access to the world of magic that they enjoyed as a matter of course; for with their firestones they could call up magic carpets, become invisible and merge with people, birds and animals at will.

“Mum is the only one of us that isn’t wearing a firestone,” Neil said, meeting his father’s eyes. “I think it makes a
difference
. She doesn’t seem to feel what we’re feeling.”

Clara stopped suddenly beside a tall, narrow archway. Above their heads, an ornate, oriental lantern cast a dim light,
illuminating
a wooden plaque set in the stone wall.

“This must be it!” she whispered excitedly. “The restaurant
does
exist! What does the writing say, Neil?”

Her brother moved forward and looked at the flowing red script. “
The Sultan’s Palace
,” he whispered.

“Shall … shall we go down?” Clara questioned nervously, glancing down the alley that ran between high walls. At a nod from Sir James, she walked under the arch and even as she did so, she knew beyond doubt that this was a magic place. Excitement coursed through her veins and she felt the
firestone
hang suddenly heavy round her neck. Neil, too, drew in his breath with a gasp as he followed her through the arched way that gave onto a dank, narrow passage that sloped steeply before them. It was very quiet; the only sound being the steady drip of the rain. Wet cobbles gleamed dully and the high walls that seemed to meet overhead in the gloom, gave the place an air of mystery and romance. Gripped by a strange exhilaration, they felt as though they had stepped suddenly from the
ordinary
world into the pages of an exotic adventure story.

In the distance, lit by a sudden shaft of light that streamed from an open door, they saw that the passage opened out into a sizeable courtyard and, as they watched, the figure of a man clad in a turban and flowing silk robes appeared in the doorway. He saw them immediately and paused, still as a statue.

Sir James eyed the Ranger. “What do you think?” he asked.
“Shall we go on?”

It was Mrs MacLean who made the decision for them. Completely unaware of their misgivings, she sailed blithely down the alley, disturbing some pigeons that rose into the air, flapping in alarm, as she made her way towards the restaurant where the still, watchful figure of the Turk awaited them.

“Hang on, Mum!” Clara called, running after her. “Wait for us!”

As Mrs MacLean stopped and turned towards her, the Turk moved forward solicitously.

“Please be careful, Miss,” he warned Clara. “The cobbles are a wee bit slippery with the rain. We don’t want any broken legs, do we?”

All thoughts of magic promptly fled. The man was no more Turkish than they were. His accent was pure Edinburgh and now that they were nearer they could see that the silken robes that had looked so splendid and romantic from a distance, were actually creased and rather tawdry. Indeed, the restaurant now looked disappointingly ordinary, despite the whiff of incense that drifted from the ornate brass burners that lay inside the curtained doorway.

The waiter stepped forward, grinning at them cheerfully and with a polite bow, he gestured towards the entrance. “Welcome,” he intoned, “to the
Sultan’s Palace
!” And ushering them through a deeply-carpeted, dimly-lit foyer, led them into the restaurant itself.

As the restaurant doors closed behind the little party with a decisive click, the two pigeons that Mrs MacLean had
disturbed
, sailed down to the cobbles.

“That’s torn it,” snapped one. “They’ve gone in!”

“We couldn’t have stopped them, Jaikie! Not without showing the Turks that we were watching the place.”

“I know, I know, but this is serious, for goodness sake!” Jaikie flapped his wings in frustration. “Look, you’d better fly back to the hill and tell the MacArthur what’s happened. I’ll hang on
here, just in case. Go on! Get moving!”

“Right, I’m off!” nodded the other and with a clap of wings, the pigeon soared skywards, heading towards the dark, misty bulk of Arthur’s Seat; the hill set in the middle of Edinburgh that looks for all the world like a sleeping dragon.

Jaikie watched him go and then turned once again to the restaurant. He eyed it anxiously, his mind taken up by the
sudden
, totally unexpected, appearance of Sir James and the Park Ranger. How they had got wind of the Turks he had no idea, but to take Clara and Neil into such danger defied belief. He groaned inwardly as he realized just how much they had
complicated
matters; the MacArthur was going to have a fit when he heard the news!

While Jaikie sat outside the restaurant, trying hard not to panic, Sir James and the Ranger were looking round the inside with interest as they made their way through chattering groups of diners, to their table. The decor was opulently rich; a dazzle of ornate gold wallpaper, red velvet curtains and crystal
chandeliers
. By far the most striking feature of the room, however, was an assortment of tall mirrors. Set in heavy, iron frames decorated with birds and flowers, they stretched along the walls from floor to ceiling, reflecting the white table linen and the sparkling glitter of candles and crystal.

At one end of the room, a band of musicians played on a raised stage, while a tall woman, dressed in flowing purple satin, sang into a microphone. Behind her, a backcloth depicted a rather garishly-painted country scene, so crudely done that it looked like the work of children. Its bright, blue sky framed a road overhung by trees that seemed to lead to a distant castle while, in the foreground, a village of thatched, peasant cottages lay in lush, green meadows dotted with improbably-coloured flowers.

Neil looked at the band with interest as many of the
instruments
were unfamiliar to him. Violins and flutes, he
recognized
,
but they were mixed with strange hand drums, long penny whistles and what he thought might be zithers. Clara, however, more interested in the musicians than their
instruments
, thought them a decidedly fearsome lot.

“They look more like bandits than musicians,” she confided to Sir James as he unfolded his napkin and reached for the menu.

Sir James was inclined to agree. They were certainly
colourful
. The men wore baggy trousers, flowing red tunics and jewelled turbans, but it didn’t take any great flight of the
imagination
to visualize them clutching rifles or even barbaric
scimitars
. However, they certainly knew how to play and the music, although strangely discordant, had a haunting charm of its own.

Sir James did the ordering and the table was soon
overflowing
with a variety of dishes that tasted delicious. The waiters hovered attentively, helping them to spicy kebabs, stuffed vine leaves and roasted aubergine dips.

Finally, they could eat no more. “That was a truly delicious meal,” Mrs MacLean said, patting her lips with the napkin as the waiters removed their plates.

“Mmm,” agreed her husband, “I ate far too much!”

They sat back in their chairs, relaxed and happy. Clara sighed as a feeling of complete contentment stole over her. The music seemed to be sending her into a gentle dream, or
perhaps
, she thought, it was the drift of incense that wafted over their table from the smouldering coals in the iron braziers that now burned with peculiar, greenish flames.

Idly she looked at the garish backcloth at the back of the little stage and wondered how she could ever have thought it tacky. It now seemed incredibly beautiful and even as she gazed at it, a strange longing rose within her. The blue sky and green trees behind the cottage spoke of lazy summer days, and the road that led to the castle promised a new world of adventure, magic and excitement.

Suddenly, the restaurant’s lights darkened, spotlights blazed
on the stage and the music shrieked to a piercing crescendo as, into their dazzling brightness, leapt a group of strangely-clad young men wearing the red fez of the Turk. Their baggy
trousers
were covered by long white dresses whose finely-pleated skirts started to billow out as they circled the stage, whirling like spinning tops. As the music quickened, so the dancers whirled faster and faster until they became a moving blur of white that held the audience dazzled and enthralled.

How long the dance lasted they never knew but as the incense in the braziers flared fiery red and its magic seeped insidiously through the room, the dancers beckoned them forward. Lured by the unseen forces that now captivated them, the Ranger and Sir James rose from their chairs and started to walk, as though in a dream, towards the stage. Clara followed and found herself pulling at Neil’s hand in her eagerness to reach the painted village that promised such untold delights. Mrs MacLean, startled at their sudden departure, picked up her handbag and tripped anxiously behind, not quite sure what was happening.

The music rose to an eerie climax as, on reaching the painted doorway of the rustic peasant’s hut, Sir James and the Ranger bent their heads and followed the dancers
unhesitatingly
into the gloom beyond. Neil and Clara followed them in but Mrs MacLean hung back in sudden horror as she realized that the door to the cottage was not really a door at all. It was a huge mirror similar to those that lined the walls of the
restaurant
and even as Clara walked through it, the dim interior of the cottage vanished abruptly, leaving Mrs MacLean staring horrified at her own reflection.