Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in 1998

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Copyright © Barbara Erskine 2016

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Cover photographs © Athina Strataki/Etsa/Corbis (woman leading a horse); Tom Gardner/Alamy (Dusk on Black Mount, Rannoch Moor, Scotland); WebbTravel/Alamy (view across the heather, Scotland)

Barbara Erskine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007288656

Ebook Edition © March 2016 ISBN: 9780007320950

Version: 2017-09-08

Epigraph

In a symbol lies concealment or revelation.

THOMAS CARLYLE

Glendower: I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

Hotspur: Why, so can I, or so can any man;

But will they come when you do call for them?

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Henry IV Part I

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Prologue

Part One: Adam 1935–1944

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Part Two: Jane 1945–1960s

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Part Three: Liza1960s–1980s

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Part Four: Beth Early 1990s

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Author’s Note

Keep Reading Barbara Erskine’s Novels

Keep Reading Sleeper’s Castle

About the Author

Also by Barbara Erskine

About the Publisher

Prologue

Time, the boy noticed idly, whirled in gigantic lazy spirals like a great vortex in the sky. Lying on his back on the short sweet Welsh grass he stared upwards into the intense blue, his eyes half closed, and let the song of the skylark carry him upwards. Beyond the clouds there was an intensity of experience which drew him on beyond the now, to where past and future were the same.

One day, when he was older, he was going to travel there, beyond time and space, and study the secrets which he knew instinctively in his bones were his hidden inheritance. Then he would fight evil with good and bring light into the dark.

‘Meryn!’

His mother’s voice, calling from the cottage down in the sheltered valley beyond the mountain where he lay, brought him to his feet. He smiled to himself. Later, after he had had his supper, when the long summer dark was descending over the hill, and the only sound was the occasional companionable bleat of a sheep in the distance or the quavering hoot of an owl drifting down the valley on silent wings, he would slip out of the cottage and run up here again to dream his dreams and prepare for the great battle which one day he knew he would fight out there, alone, on the edge of darkness …

PART ONE

Adam 1935–1944

1

‘Why don’t you take a knife and kill me, Thomas? It would be quicker and more honest!’

Susan Craig was shouting now, her voice harsh with despair. ‘Dear God, you drive me to do this! You and your sanctimonious cruelty.’ She was standing near the window, tears pouring down her face.

Adam, thin, skinny, and tall for his age, which was fourteen, was standing outside his father’s study window, his arms wrapped tightly around his body, his mouth working with misery as he tried to stop himself shouting out loud in his mother’s defence. The quarrel, growing steadily louder and louder, had been going on for what seemed like hours, and for what seemed like hours he had been standing there, listening. What had she done – what could she have done? – to make his father so angry? He didn’t understand.

‘Now you take the name of the Lord in vain as well! Is there no end to your wickedness, you stupid, senseless woman?’ Thomas’s voice too was almost incoherent.

‘I’m not wicked, Thomas. I’m human! Is that so evil? Why can’t you listen to me? You don’t care! You never have, damn you!’ His mother’s voice was shrill, out of control, his father’s a deep rumbling torrent of words designed to override and to annihilate.

The boy’s eyes were blind with tears as he put his hands over his ears, trying to block out the sounds, but it was no use; they filled the echoing rooms of the huge old stone-built manse and spilled out of the windows and doors until they seemed to fill the garden and the surrounding village of Pittenross, the woods and even the sky.

Suddenly he couldn’t bear it any more. Stumbling in his haste, unable to see where he was going for his tears, he turned and ran for the gate.

The manse stood at the end of a quiet village street, hidden behind the high wall which all but encompassed house and garden, save where, at the far end of the vegetable patch, the broad sweep of the River Tay rattled over shingle and rock. To the left of the house stood the old kirk amongst its attendant trees, its lawns and gravel paths deserted behind high ornate railings and an imposing gate. To the right the street, lined by grey stone-built houses, was silent and at this hour empty of people.

Adam ran along the street, cutting down through Fishers’ Wynd, a small alley between high, blank walls, skirted some rough ground, half-heartedly gardened by the wife of one of his father’s elders, hopped across the river by way of shining black rocks and stones and, climbing a wire fence, began to run up through the thick woods which clung to the lower slopes of the hill. He ran until he could run no longer, sure that if he stopped he would still be able to hear the sounds of his parents quarrelling.

The quarrels had been growing worse over the past few weeks. He had no brothers or sisters to share his burden, no other family in whom he could confide, no one in the village he felt he could talk to. His loyalty to his parents was absolute and somehow he knew that this was private, not something that anyone else should know about, ever. But he didn’t know what to do, and he could not cope with what was happening. His beautiful, young happy mother, happy at least when he and she were alone together, whom he adored, had changed into a pale, short-tempered shadow of herself, whilst his father, always a large man, burly and of florid complexion, had grown larger and more florid. Sometimes Adam looked at his father’s hands; huge, powerful hands, the hands of a labourer rather than the hands of a man of God, and he shuddered. He knew how hard they could wield the strap. His father believed in beating his son for the good of his soul at the slightest transgression. Adam did not mind so much for himself, he was used to it. Almost. But he was terrified, blindly, completely and overwhelmingly terrified that his father might beat his mother.

He never knew why they quarrelled. Sometimes at night, lying in his dark bedroom, he could hear the occasional word through the wall, but they made no sense. His mother adored the mountains and the river and the village and the life of a minister’s wife, and she had dozens – hundreds, or so it seemed to her son – of friends, so why should she cry out that she was lonely? Why should she say that she was so unhappy?

Without thinking about where he was going, he had taken a favourite path up through the trees, following a tumbling, rocky burn up the hillside, seeing flashes of white foaming water from rock pools and waterfalls as he climbed on between birch and rowan and holly, through larch and spruce, to where the woods thinned and the mountainside took over.

His pace had slowed now and he was badly out of breath, but still he ploughed on, following a sheep’s track through the grass and prickly heather, skirting the rocky outcrops flung up millennia ago by volcanic and glacial fury. He was heading for the carved stone cross-slab, erected, so tradition had it, by the Picts, the people who had inhabited these hills even before the Scots came, to stand sentinel on the hill far above the village and the river. He always went there when he was miserable. It stood near a small wood of old Scots pine, part of the ancient Caledonian Forest which had girdled the mountains centuries before, and it was his own very special, private, place.

It had stood there on the flat top of the ridge, half circled by the old trees, for more than fourteen hundred years, rearing, at a slight angle to the vertical, over a view which on a clear day extended perhaps thirty miles to the south, to the north only two or three before the high mountains blocked the sky. On the face which turned towards the sun there was a huge cross, set within a wheel in the manner of the Celts, carved with intricate lacy patterns, the everlasting design which represented eternal life. On the back were stranger, heathenish carvings – a snake, a jagged broken stave, a mirror and a crescent moon – and of these symbols the village as a whole and his father in particular disapproved violently. Thomas Craig had told Adam that the symbol stones had been carved by worshippers of the devil, who had left them there on the high lonely hillside with their hidden message to all who came after them. Sometimes Adam used to think it was a miracle that the stone had not been torn down and broken and utterly destroyed – perhaps it was because it was too far from the village, too much effort to do it, or perhaps it was because secretly the people were afraid to touch it. He wasn’t afraid. But he could sense its power – its special, wild magic.

Reaching the stone he flung himself down at its foot and, sure that no one could see him save the distant circling buzzard, he abandoned himself at last to his tears.

The girl had seen him coming, though. Often, before, she had noticed him, a boy about her own age, winding his way up through the heather and she had hidden, either behind the stone or amongst the trees, or in the soft, drifting mists which so often descended on this place.

Three times lately she had heard him cry. It made her uncomfortable. She wanted to find out why he was so unhappy, to see him laugh and jump about as he had when he had brought the brown-and-white sheltie puppy with him. She had never approached him. She was not supposed to be here. Her brother would be furious if he knew she had strayed from his side, but she had grown bored with watching him carve the stone. The chisels, the small hammer, the punches, the tools of his trade laid out neatly on the heather with the rolled vellum template which he fastened to the stone to punch out the designs.

The dog had seen her and barked, its hackles raised along its back. She was puzzled by that. Dogs usually liked her. But she kept her distance. She didn’t want the boy to see her.

His tears were exhausted at last. Sitting up he sniffed and, rubbing his face with the sleeve of his sweater, he began to look round. Far above him he could hear the lonely yelp of an eagle. He squinted up into the blue but the glare behind the clouds was too bright and he shook his head and closed his eyes. When he opened them he saw the girl for a fraction of a second, peering at him from the trees. Startled, he jumped to his feet.

‘Hey! Hello?’ His call was carried away on the wind. ‘Where are you?’

There was no sign of her. He ran a few steps towards the trees. ‘Come on. I’ve seen you! Show yourself!’ He hoped she hadn’t seen him crying. Blushing at the thought he peered amongst the soft, red, peeling trunks of the trees. But she had gone.

It was twilight when he retraced his steps reluctantly towards the manse. From the path amongst the thickly growing trees on the steep bank of the burn as it tumbled towards the river he could see in the distance the lamp already lit in his father’s study window. Usually by now there would be a curl of blue smoke from the kitchen chimney but he couldn’t see it yet against the darkening sky. Nervously he wondered if Mrs Barron had stayed on to cook supper as she often did, or was his mother, an apron tied over her dress, standing in the kitchen wielding the huge iron pans?

It was the back door he approached on tiptoe from the yard at the side of the manse. There was no one in the kitchen at all and no pans on the range. In fact the range was cold. With a sinking heart he crept out into the back hall and listened, half afraid that the quarrel would still be in progress, but the house was silent now. Breathing a quick sigh of relief, he tiptoed through to the front and stood for one long, daring moment outside his father’s study, then he turned and fled upstairs.

His parents’ bedroom looked out over the wall towards the kirk. It was an austere room, the iron bed covered by a pale fawn counterpane, the heavy wooden furniture unrelieved by pictures or flowers. On his mother’s dressing table, uncluttered by make-up or scent or powder sat, side by side, neatly aligned, a matching ivory-backed hair brush, a clothes brush and a comb. Nothing else. Thomas Craig would not permit his wife to paint her face.

Nervously Adam peered into the room, though he could sense already that it was empty. It was cold and north-facing, the room where he had been born. He hated it.

Normally he liked the kitchen best. With the warmth from the range and the smells of cooking and the cheerful light-hearted banter between his mother and Jeannie Barron it was the nicest and most cheerful place to be. When his father was out. When his father was at home his dour, disapproving presence filled the house, Adam’s mother fell silent and even the birds in the garden seemed, to the boy, afraid to sing.

Standing in the doorway, he was about to turn away when he paused, frowning. Like a small animal, alert, suspicious, he sensed that something was wrong. He looked round the room more carefully this time, but in its bleak tidiness it gave no clue as to what might be amiss.

He had two bedrooms to himself. One, as sober and tidy as his parents’, his official bedroom, was next to theirs on the landing. But he had another room, up in the attic, known to his mother and Mrs Barron, but not, he was almost sure, to his father, who never climbed up there. In it he had a bright rag rug, and several old chests for the treasures and specimens which formed his museum, his books and his maps. It was up here, alone, when he was supposed to be doing his school work in his official bedroom, that he led his intensely private life; it was here that he wrote up his notes and copied diagrams and studied musty textbooks which he had picked up in second-hand bookshops in Perth, all designed to lead towards his ambition to be a doctor, and it was here that he sketched the birds he watched out on the hills and here he had once tried to dissect, then to dry and stuff the dead body of a fox he had found in a snare. Jeannie Barron had soon put paid to that enterprise, but otherwise the two women had left him more or less to his own devices up there. Today however it did not provide the sanctuary he had come to expect. He felt restless and unhappy. Something was very wrong.

After only a few minutes’ leafing half-heartedly through a book on spiders he threw it down on the table and went out onto the landing. He listened for a moment, then he ran down the narrow upper flight of stairs, then the broader flight below and went to peer once more into the kitchen. It was as cheerless and empty as before.

It was a long time before he plucked up enough courage to knock on the door of his father’s study.

Thomas Craig was sitting at his desk, his hands folded before him on the blotter. He was a tall, rangy man, with a shock of dark hair threaded with silver, large, staring pale blue eyes and his skin, normally high-coloured, was today unusually pale.

‘Father?’ Adam’s voice was timid.

There was no response.

‘Father, where is Mother?’

His father looked up at last. There was a strange triangle of livid skin beneath each high cheekbone where his face had rested on the interlinked fingers of his hands. He propped himself wearily on his elbows on the desk, then cleared his throat as though for a moment he found it hard to speak. ‘She’s gone,’ he said at last, his voice lifeless.

‘Gone?’ Adam repeated the word uncomprehendingly.

‘Gone.’ Thomas lowered his face back into his hands.

His son shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. An inexplicable pain had settled in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t dare look at his father’s face again, fixing his eyes instead on his own ragged plimsolls.

Thomas sighed heavily. He looked up again. ‘Mrs Barron has seen fit to hand in her notice,’ he said at last, ‘so it would seem we are alone.’

Adam swallowed. His voice when he spoke was very small. ‘Where has Mother gone?’

‘I don’t know. And I don’t wish to.’ Abruptly Thomas stood up. Pushing back his chair he walked over to the window and stood looking out into the garden. ‘Your mother, Adam, has committed a grievous sin. In the eyes of God, and in my eyes, she is no longer part of this family. I do not wish her name to be mentioned in this house again. Go to your room and pray that her evil ways have not corrupted you. A night without supper will do you no harm at all.’ He did not turn round.

Adam stared at him, barely taking in what he had said. ‘But, Father, where has she gone?’ Little panicky waves of anguish were beginning to flutter in his chest. He wanted his mother very badly indeed.

‘Go to your room!’ Thomas’s voice, heavy with his own grief and anger and incomprehension, betrayed the depth of his emotion for only a moment.

Adam did not try to question him again. Turning, he ran into the hall, out through the kitchen and on into the garden. It was growing dark, but he did not hesitate. Loping round the side of the house he headed down the silent street towards the river once more. Slipping on the rocks in the dark he felt his feet sliding into the icy water but he did not hesitate, plunging into the woods and climbing as fast as he could up the hillside.

Once he stopped and turned. The manse was in darkness save for the single point of light, the lamp in his father’s study. From where he stood he could see the kirk and the dark trees round it, and the whole village, where one by one the lights were coming on, the evening air hazed with the fragrant blue smoke from the chimneys. The village was friendly, busy, warm. He knew every single person who lived in those houses. He was at school with children from many of them, in the same class as five other boys all of whom he had grown up with.

He stood looking down for a few minutes, feeling the wind, cold now, on the back of his neck, and he shivered. There were goosepimples on his thin arms beneath his sweater. He felt sick. Where had his mother gone? What had happened to her? Why hadn’t she told him where she was going? Why hadn’t she taken him with her? Why hadn’t she at least left him a note?

It was better to keep moving. Walking in the almost-darkness amongst the trees with the flash of white water on his right needed all his concentration. If he walked he couldn’t think. He didn’t want to think.

Turning, he scrambled on, feeling his wet plimsolls slide on the track, and he grabbed at the wiry branches of the larch which hung over him to stop himself falling as he headed for the stone.

It was completely dark when he reached the cross-slab at last. He doubled over, panting, aware that the moment he stopped moving the icy wind would strip away his bodyheat within seconds. He didn’t care. The moment he stopped moving he could no longer fend off the misery which was flooding through him. His mother. His adored, lovely, bright, pretty mother was gone and, he shuddered at the memory of his father’s words. What had she done? What could she have done? He wrapped his arms around himself, hunching his shoulders. He had never felt so alone, or so afraid.

She had never seen the boy come up here in the dark before. Behind the hills in the east a silver glow showed where soon the half moon would rise above the black rocks and flood the countryside with light. Then she would be able to see him more clearly. Quietly she waited.

Behind her, her brother Gartnait, five years her senior, was packing up his tools and stretching his arms above his head until his joints cracked. Between one moment and the next a black silhouetted moon-shadow ran across the ground at his feet. The light caught the gleam of an iron chisel and he stooped to pick it up.

Brid crept forward a little. The boy had a thin, attractive face with a child’s nose still, but his shoulders and knees were beginning already to show the coltishness which would come before he developed the stature of a man. She stared at his clothes, colourless in the pale light, and she crept nearer. He never seemed to do much when he came up to the hill. Sometimes he sat for hours, his arms wrapped around his legs, his chin on his knees, just staring into space. A few times he had come up to Gartnait’s stone and touched the carving with his finger, tracing the lines. Twice, in the hot months, he had stretched out on the hot ground and slept. On one of those occasions she had drawn closer, until she was standing over him and her slim shadow had touched his face. He had frowned and screwed up his nose and put his hand to his forehead, but he hadn’t opened his eyes.

She could feel his misery. It was sucking at her energy, swirling round him in a cloak of black waves which lapped out into the darkness and touched her with its cold.

Perhaps her sympathy was so great it had become tangible; whatever the reason, he looked up suddenly, startled as though he had heard something, and he looked straight at her. She saw his eyes widen. Instinctively his hand brushed his cheek and he straightened his shoulders to hide his misery. His momentary fear at seeing a figure in the shadows gave way to relief when he realised it was the girl he had seen earlier and he made a brave attempt at a smile. ‘Hello.’

She frowned. She did not recognise the word, though the smile was friendly. She stepped forward.

When she spoke to him it was in the language of her birth, the language of the ancient Picts.

His heartbeat had steadied a little. The exhaustion of the steep climb, for the second time that day, and then the girl appearing out of the darkness of the trees had made him gasp for breath. He stared at her, more puzzled than startled now. She had said something to him in words he didn’t understand. Gaelic, he supposed, a language his father considered to be barbaric. He shrugged at her. ‘I don’t understand.’

Even in that dim light he could see the brightness of her eyes, the pert tilt of her nose and chin. She was wearing a rough dress which looked as though it were made of some sort of leather.

She shrugged back, mimicking him, and then she giggled.

He found himself laughing too and suddenly daring she moved closer and touched her finger to his cheek, removing imaginary tears. Her mime was clear. Why are you sad? Cheer up. Then her hands dropped to his and she gave a theatrical shiver. She was right. He was very cold.

He wasn’t quite sure how he came to follow her. His misery, his cold, his hunger, all were persuasive. When she caught his hand and tugged at it, miming food in her mouth, he nodded eagerly and went with her.

He followed her towards the stone, his fingers brushing across the well-known shapes as he walked past it. There was a drift of mist across the path and he hesitated, but when she tugged again at his hand he went on, stopping only when he saw her brother. The tall young man, his tools now stowed in a leather bag slung over his shoulder, looked as startled as he was himself. He spoke quietly and urgently to the girl and she retorted with words quite obviously cheeky. It was then she introduced herself. She pointed to her chest. ‘Brid,’ she said firmly. She pronounced it Breed. ‘Gartnait.’ This was said thumping the young man’s shoulder.

Adam grinned. He pointed to his own stomach. ‘Adam,’ he said.

‘A-dam.’ She repeated the word softly. Then she laughed again.

They walked for about twenty minutes around the shoulder of the ridge, following a faint deer track through the heather before Adam saw in the distance below them the flickering light of a fire. As they scrambled down towards it he smelled meat cooking. Venison, he reckoned, and the juices in his mouth ran. He hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. He refused to think about the empty cold kitchen at home, concentrating instead on his new friends.

At the sight of their destination he frowned slightly. It was no more than a round ramshackle bothy, thatched with rushes, hidden in a fold of the hill beside a tumbling burn. The fire, he saw as they drew closer, was being tended by a woman, from her looks the mother of Brid and Gartnait, who, he had already guessed, were brother and sister. The woman, tall and slim, very erect when she straightened from poking the logs beneath her cooking pot, had hair as dark as her daughter’s, and the same clear grey eyes. Throwing down her makeshift poker she made him welcome, a little shyly, and pointing to a fur rug spread on the ground near the fire indicated that he sit down. Her name, Brid told him, was Gemma. Gartnait, he saw, had gone to wash the stonedust from his hands in the stream. Brid too had disappeared inside the bothy. She returned seconds later with four plates and a loaf of bread which she broke into four pieces and laid on the plates near the fire.

The meal he was given was, he thought, the best he had eaten in his whole life. The bread was rough and full of flavour, spread with thick creamy butter. With it they ate – with their fingers – venison cut into wafer-thin portions by Gartnait’s razor-sharp knife, mountain trout, cooked on slender twigs above the fire, and wedges of crumbling white cheese. Then there was more bread to mop up the rich gravy. To drink they had something which Adam, who had never touched alcohol in his life, suspected was some kind of heather ale. Mesmerised by the fire and the food and by his smiling though silent companions he drank heavily and within minutes, leaning back against a log, he was fast asleep.

He was awakened by Brid’s hand on his knee. For a moment he couldn’t think where he was, then he realised he was still outside. To his surprise he found he was lying warmly wrapped in a heavy woollen blanket. The fuzz of the wool was soaked with dew as he sat up and began to unwrap himself, but inside he was warm and dry.

‘A-dam.’ He loved the way she pronounced his name, carefully, liltingly, a little as though it were a French word. She pointed up at the sky. To his horror he could see the streaks of dawn above the hill. He had been out all night. His father would kill him if he found out. Frightened, he began to scramble to his feet.

Behind Brid her mother was bending over a brightly burning fire. Something was simmering in the pot suspended above it. He sniffed and Brid clapped her hands. She nodded and, taking a pottery bowl from her mother, spooned some sort of thin porridge into it. Taking it from her he sniffed, tasted, and burned his tongue. As breakfasts went it was pretty tasteless, not nearly as nice as the meal the night before, but it filled his stomach and when at last Brid led him back the way they had come he was feeling comparatively cheerful.

The cross-slab was wrapped once more in mist as they passed close beside it and he walked onto the hillside and stood looking down at his own valley, still wrapped in darkness. Brid pointed, with a little smile, and Adam stepped away from her. ‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘And thanks.’

‘Goodbye and thanks.’ The girl repeated the words softly. With a wave she turned and vanished into the mist.

The manse looked bleak in the cold dawn light. There was still no smoke coming from the chimneys and the front door was locked. Biting his lip nervously Adam ran soundlessly round the side, praying under his breath that the kitchen door would be open. It wasn’t. He stood there for a moment undecided, looking up at the blank windows at the back of the house. The awful misery was returning. Swallowing it down he turned and headed back into the street.

The manse might still be asleep but the village was stirring. The sweet smell of woodsmoke filled the air as he turned up Bridge Street and into Jeannie Barron’s gate and knocked tentatively at the door. The sound was greeted by a frenzy of wild barking.

The door was opened seconds later by Jeannie’s burly husband, Ken. A pretty sheltie was leaping round his heels, plainly delighted to see Adam, who stooped to give her a hug. The dog had been his once. But for some reason Adam had never understood his father had disapproved of his son having a pet and the puppy had been given to Jeannie. Ken stared down at Adam with a surprised frown and then turned and called over his shoulder, ‘Jeannie, it’s the minister’s lad.’

Jeannie’s kindly pink-cheeked face appeared behind him. She was wearing her overall just as she always did at the manse.

‘Hello, Mrs Barron.’ Adam looked at her and to his intense embarrassment his eyes flooded with tears.

‘Adam.’ She pushed past her husband and enveloped the boy in a huge plump hug. ‘Oh, my poor wee boy.’ He was almost as tall as she was but for the moment he was a small child again, seeking comfort and warmth and affection in her arms.

She ushered him into her kitchen, pushed her husband outside and sat Adam down at her table. A mug of milky tea and a thick wedge of bread and jam later she stood looking down at him. His pale face had regained its colour and the tears had dried but there was no disguising the misery in the boy’s face. The dog was sitting pressed against his legs.

‘Now, do you understand what’s happened?’ She sat down opposite him and reached for the large brown teapot.

He shrugged. ‘Father said Mother has gone.’ The tears were very near. ‘He said she had sinned.’

‘She’s not sinned!’ The strength of her voice helped him control the sob which was lurking in his throat. ‘Your mother is a decent, beautiful, good woman. But she’s been driven to the end of the road by that man.’

Adam frowned. Not recognising her metaphor he pictured a car, driven by a stranger.

Jeannie Barron scowled. Her fair hair leaped round her head in coiled springs as she wielded her pot and filled both their mugs again. ‘How she put up with him so long, I’ll never know. I only hope she’ll find happiness where she’s gone.’

‘Where has she gone?’ He looked at her desperately.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Adam, and that’s the truth.’

‘But she’d tell you?’ Adam was biting his lip.

She shook her head again. ‘She told no one that I know.’

‘But why did she leave me behind?’ It was the bewildered cry of a small child. ‘Why didn’t she take me with her?’

Jeannie pursed her lips. ‘I don’t know.’ She sighed unhappily. ‘It’s not because she doesn’t love you. You must believe that. Perhaps she didn’t know herself where she was going. Perhaps she’ll send for you a wee bit later.’

‘Do you think so?’ His huge brown eyes were pleading.

Meeting them she couldn’t lie to him and give him the reassurance he wanted. All she could say was, ‘I hope so, Adam, I do hope so.’ Susan Craig had been her friend but not her confidante. To confide too much in another was not in her nature. It was enough that she knew that Jeannie would be there for Adam.

It was as he was standing up to leave he remembered why they were here in her kitchen and not in the manse. ‘Do you really not work for us any more?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Adam. Your father doesn’t want me there.’

She would never tell anyone, never mind the boy, the vile, furious words the distraught man had flung at her when she had tried to defend and then excuse his wife’s decision to leave. She put her hands on Adam’s shoulders, her heart aching for the boy. With her own family long gone and scattered round Scotland and one of them in Canada she had always thought of Adam privately as the child of her middle years. ‘Listen, Adam. I want you to remember I’m here if you need me. You can come to me any time.’ She held his gaze firmly. ‘Any time, Adam.’

She had a shrewd idea what the boy was going back to and she didn’t envy him. But he had courage, she had always admired him for that.

When he turned into the gate and approached the house this time the front door was open. He hesitated in the hall. The door to his father’s study was shut and he glanced at the stairs, wondering if he could reach them in time on his silent rubber soles. He was almost there when he heard the door behind him open. Panic flooded into his throat. For a moment he thought, as he turned to face his father, that he was going to be sick.

Thomas Craig stood back, gesturing the boy into his study with a sharp jerk of his head. The man’s face was grey and he was unshaven. As he closed the door behind his son, he reached up to the hook on the back of it and brought down the broad leather belt which hung there.

Adam whimpered, the ice of fear pouring over his shoulders and down his back, his skin already taut with terror at the beating that was coming. ‘Father –’

‘Where were you last night?’

‘On the hill, Father. I’m sorry. I got lost in the mist.’

‘You disobeyed me. I told you to go to your room. I had to look for you. I searched the village. And the riverbank, I didn’t know what had happened to you!’

‘I’m sorry, Father.’ He was ashamed of himself for being so afraid but he couldn’t help it. ‘I was upset.’ His words were very quiet.

‘Upset?’ His father echoed them. He pulled the leather strap through his hand and doubled it into his fist. ‘You think that excuses disobedience?’

‘No, Father.’ Adam clutched his hands together to stop them shaking.

‘And you accept that God would want you punished?’

No, he was screaming inside himself. No. Mummy says God is the God of love. He forgives. He wouldn’t want me beaten.

‘Well?’ Thomas’s voice came out as a hiss.

‘Yes, Father,’ Adam whispered.

His father stood for a moment in silence, looking at him, then he pulled an upright wooden chair out from the wall and placing it in front of his desk he pointed at it.

Adam was trembling. ‘Please, Father –’

‘Not another word.’

‘Father –’

‘God is waiting, Adam!’ The minister’s voice roared suddenly above his son’s whispered plea.

Adam gave up. His legs shaking so much he could hardly move he went to the chair and bent over it, stuffing one fist miserably into his mouth.

Thomas Craig was a just man in his way, sincere in the austere, hard religion which he preached. He knew in some part of himself that the boy’s misery at losing his mother must be as great, perhaps greater, than his own at losing his wife, but as he started to swing the leather strap down onto the child’s defenceless back something inside him snapped. Again and again he swung the belt, seeing, not the narrow hips and scruffy shirt and shorts of a fourteen-year-old boy, but the figure of his beautiful, provocative, unruly wife. It was not until the boy slid into an ungainly heap at his feet that he stopped, appalled, staring down in disbelief.

‘Adam?’ He dropped the belt. He knelt beside the boy and stared in horror at the oozing welts which were appearing on the back of the boy’s thighs, the long bloody stains soaking through his shorts.

‘Adam?’ He reached out his hand to his son’s awkwardly angled head and drew back, afraid suddenly to touch him. ‘What have I done?’

Swallowing hard, he backed away and moving blindly to his desk he sat down at it and picked up his Bible. Clutching it to his chest he sat without moving for a long time. On the blotter before him, torn into small pieces, lay the note Susan Craig had left for her son, a note Adam would never see.

In the hall outside, the long case clock ticked slowly on. It struck the half hour and then the hour and as the long sonorous notes echoed into silence Thomas stirred at last.

Lifting the unconscious boy he carried him upstairs and laid him tenderly on the bed and only then did he find the strength to walk into his own bedroom for the first time since Susan had left him. He stood looking round. Her brushes and comb lay on the table in the window. Otherwise there was no sign of her in the room. But there never had been. He had always discouraged ornaments and fripperies. He did not permit flowers in the house.

He hesitated for a moment then he walked over to the huge old mahogany wardrobe. The righthand door concealed his own meagre selection of black suits; the lefthand door her clothes. More than his, but not many more: the two suits, one navy and one black, the two black hats which sat on the shelf above them and the three cotton dresses, washed and ironed again and again, with the high necks and the long sleeves and sober autumnal colours which he considered suitable for her summer wear. She had two pairs of black lace-up shoes. He pulled open the door, steeling himself to find the clothes gone, but they were there. All of them. He was not prepared to see them, not prepared for his own reaction. The wave of grief and love and loss which swept over him shook him to the core. Unable to stop himself he pulled one of the dresses from its wooden hanger and, hugging it in his arms, he buried his face in it and wept.

It was a long time before he stopped crying.

He looked down at the dress in his arms in disgust. It smelled of her. It smelled of woman, of sweat, of lust. He did not immediately recognise the lust as his own. Throwing the dress on the floor he pulled the rest of the clothes out of the cupboard into a heap, then he descended on the bed. He tore off one of the heavy linen sheets and bundled it around her clothes and shoes and even the two hats. He pulled open the drawers which contained her meagre collection of much-darned underwear and threw them in the pile, then he carried it all out of the room. The tangle of rusty wires and the iron frame which was all that was left of Susan Craig’s beloved piano was still there in the garden behind the neat lines of vegetables. Her clothes were thrown down there and Thomas poured paraffin all over them before setting them alight. He waited until the last thick lisle stocking had turned to ash, then he walked back into the house.

He did not climb the stairs to see how Adam was. Instead he walked into his study and stood looking down at the chair over which the boy had bent. He was full of self-loathing. The anger, the misery, the love which he mistook for lust which he had felt for his wife, were evil. They were sins. The most terrible sins. How could he tend his flock and rebuke them for their backsliding when he could not control his own? Walking blindly to the desk he picked up the strap which he had dropped there after he had given the boy the thrashing and he stood looking down at it as it lay across his hand. He knew what he must do.

He locked the door of the old kirk behind him and stepped down into the shadowy nave, looking round the grey stone building with its neat lines of chairs and the bare table at the east end. A church had stood on this site for over a thousand years, or so it was believed, and sometimes in spite of himself, when he was alone in the building, as now, he could feel the special sacredness of the place. He was shocked to find this superstition in himself but could do nothing to rid himself of it. Enough light filtered in through the windows for him to see clearly as he walked halfway along the aisle and sat slowly down. In his right hand he carried the strap with which he had beaten his son.

He sat for a long time upright, rigid, his hands clenched, his eyes shut in prayer to the Lord. But he knew the Lord wanted more than this. He wanted punishment for Thomas’s weakness. As the last rays of light died in the sky outside, throwing pale streaks through the windows onto the ancient stone of the walls and floor, he stood up. He walked to the front of the lines of chairs and slowly he began to remove his jacket and then his tie and his shirt. He folded them neatly, shivering as the cold air played over his pale shoulders. He hesitated for a minute, then he went on: shoes, socks, trousers, all meticulously stowed on the pile. He wondered for a minute if he should remove his long woollen underpants but the male body naked, like the female, was an abomination before the Lord.

Then he picked up the leather belt.

The pain of the first self-inflicted welt took his breath away. He hesitated, but only for a second. Again and again he raised his arm and felt the merciless strap curling round his ribs. He lost count after a while, glorying in the pain, feeling it cleansing him, feeling it wipe out all trace of his own vile sin.

Slowly the strokes grew weaker. He collapsed to his knees on the stone floor and the strap fell out of his hand. He heard the sound of a sob and realised it had come from his own throat. In despair he slid down until he was lying full length on the floor, his head buried in his arms.

When Adam woke he was curled face down on his own bed. He tried to move and cried out with pain, clutching at the sheet beneath his face.

‘Mummy!’

He had forgotten. In the past when his father had beaten him she had crept upstairs later, secretly, and put iodine on his cuts and given him a sweetie to comfort him. But she wasn’t here, and this time the pain was worse than it had ever been before. He tried to move and stopped, sobbing silently into the pillow.

The house was very quiet. He lay still for a long time as the blood congealed and dried and his clothes stuck to his back. After a while he dozed. Once he awoke with a start when a door banged somewhere downstairs. He held his breath, frightened his father would appear, then when he didn’t he slowly relaxed again and once more sleep numbed his pain.

The need to urinate drove him at last from his bed. Moving stiffly, biting his lip to stop himself from crying out loud he made his way to the lavatory and, locking himself in, he unbuttoned his shorts. He was too stiff to twist round to look at his buttocks, but he could see the bruises on his legs, the blood on the cotton of his clothes. The sight frightened him. He didn’t know what to do.

Creeping back into his bedroom he crawled back into the bed. When he woke again it was almost dark. Pulling himself up he crept to the top of the stairs and looked down. No lamps had been lit. Stiffly he tiptoed down. His father’s study door was open. There was no one there and he stood for a moment, staring in.

He pulled an old raincoat from the line of hooks in the tiled vestibule and draped it round his shoulders, afraid he might meet someone, afraid that they would see what his father had done to him and afraid they would know that he had been bad.

He almost did not dare knock at Jeannie’s door again, but he didn’t know what else to do. As he stumbled up her front path his head was spinning. His feet felt as though they belonged to someone else a long way away. He raised his hand to the door knocker and grasped at the air, falling forward so his fingers clawed at the boards.

The dog heard him.

‘That man should be locked up!’ Ken Barron was pouring water from the pans on the range into the hip bath before the fire. ‘He ought to be reported.’

Jeannie shook her head. Her lips were tight. ‘No, Ken. Let be. I shall deal with this myself.’ She had had to fight back the tears when she saw the state of the boy.

The bath had been the only way. He couldn’t sit down in it, but she had him kneel in his clothes whilst she poured jugs of water over the thin shoulders and slowly worked first the shirt and then the shorts free of the dried blood.

When at last the wounds were clean and she had soothed them with Germolene she put one of her husband’s clean shirts on the boy, cursing the roughness of the linen as she saw him wince, then she gave him some broth and put him in the press-bed in the corner of the room.

What she had to say to the minister would keep until morning. He was not going to get away with what he had done this time.

‘Don’t be a fool, Jeannie.’ Ken was only half-hearted in his effort to dissuade his wife from visiting the manse the next morning. He had enormous respect for Jeannie’s towering rages.

Her blue eyes were blazing. ‘Just try and stop me!’ Her hands were on her hips as she faced him and he moved back hastily and stood in the doorway, watching as his wife sailed off down the street, clutching Adam’s hand.

The front door of the manse was open. She dragged Adam in with her and stood in the hall looking round. She could smell the unhappiness in the house, the lack of fresh air and flowers, and she shivered, thinking of the beautiful young English woman Thomas Craig had somehow won when he was training for the ministry and brought back to this house fifteen years ago. Susan had been full of the love of life, her hair bright, her clothes pretty and the high-ceilinged rooms of the two-hundred-year-old house had resounded for a while to the sound of her singing, to the piano she played so beautifully, to her laughter. But slowly, bit by bit, he had destroyed her. He forbade the singing, frowned at the laughter. One day when she had gone into Perth on the bus he had someone take the piano out into the garden and he had burned it as an abomination in the eyes of God, for was not all music frivolous and shocking if it was not played in the kirk? Susan had cried that evening in the kitchen like a child, and Jeannie, young herself then too, had put her hand on the bright hair, now tied back in a tight styleless bun, and tried in vain to comfort her.

Adam had been born ten months after Thomas Craig brought Susan to the manse. There had been no more children.

Her whole life was bound up with the little boy, but Thomas had views on his son’s upbringing too; children should be seen and not heard; spare the rod and spoil the child.

Jeannie sighed. Adam was a bright child. He went to the local school and was now at the Academy in Perth. He made friends easily but, too afraid and ashamed to ask them home, became more and more engrossed in his books and his hobbies alone. The only love and happiness he had experienced in his home life had been sneaked behind the closed door of the kitchen, where his mother and the manse’s warm-hearted housekeeper had in a conspiracy of silence tried to make the boy’s life happy out of the sight of his father.

At the private life of the minister and his wife, Jeannie could only guess. She sniffed as she thought about it. A man who could order the shooting of a dog for covering a bitch in a country lane just because it was outside the kirk on the Sabbath, a man who ordered the village girls to wear their sleeves to their wrists even in the summer, was not a man at ease with sensual needs.

Thomas had seen them walking in through the courtyard from the window in the cold empty dining room. His clothes were immaculate, his shirt white and starched. There was no sign in his face of the pain he was feeling as he appeared in the doorway and confronted them. His eyes went from Jeannie’s belligerent, tightly controlled expression to that of his son, white, exhausted and afraid. He did not allow himself to waver.

‘Adam, you may go to your room. I wish to talk to Mrs Barron alone.’

He moved stiffly in front of her into his study and turned to face her at once, before she had a chance even to open her mouth. ‘I would like you to take your old job back. There has to be someone to look after the boy.’

His words took her breath away. She had been ready for a fight. She clenched her fists. ‘I nearly had the doctor to him last night,’ she said defiantly.

She saw his jawline tighten, otherwise his face remained impassive. ‘It will not happen again, Mrs Barron.’

There was a moment’s silence between them, then she lifted her shoulders slightly. ‘I see.’ There was another pause. ‘Is Mrs Craig not coming back, then?’

‘No, Mrs Craig is not coming back.’ His knuckles went white on the desk as he leaned forward to ease his pain. The scattered pieces of Susan Craig’s note had disappeared.

Jeannie nodded in grim acknowledgement. ‘Very well then, Minister. I shall resume my position here. For the boy’s sake, you understand. But it must not happen again. Ever.’

Their eyes met and he inclined his head. ‘Thank you,’ he said humbly.

She stared at him in silence for a long moment, then she turned towards the door. ‘I’d best go and light the range.’

2

For Adam the days that followed were different. His father spoke to him seldom, and when he did he was distant, as though they were polite strangers. The boy had his breakfast and midday meal in the kitchen with Mrs Barron. Supper was always cold. Sometimes he and his father would sit opposite one another in silence in the dining room; sometimes, when Thomas was out, Adam would put his supper in a bag, stow it in his knapsack and escape onto the hill.

The holidays were drawing to an end. In a few days school would start again. He was glad. Something had happened between him and his friends which he didn’t understand. There was a new restraint between them – a slight embarrassment, almost an aloofness. He did not know that the news had sped round the district that Mrs Craig, the minister’s wife, had run away to Edinburgh with – the selection was varied – a travelling salesman, a university lecturer (he had been staying at the Bridge Hotel for two weeks over the summer), or the French wine importer who had been visiting the Forest Road Hotel along the river and who had left two days before Mrs Craig had disappeared. Nothing was said, but when he caught sight of Euan and Wee Mikey whispering behind the shop and heard their sniggers, hastily cut off as he approached, he felt himself colour sharply and he turned away. They had betrayed him. His best friend Robbie would have understood, perhaps (Robbie being one of the few friends to whose house he was allowed to go) but Robbie had not been at home all summer and a year ago, after his mother had died, had gone away to boarding school. So, instead of seeing his friends for the last precious days of the holidays, Adam amused himself and concentrated hard on the thought of school.

He had always enjoyed school and he enjoyed his work. He hadn’t told his father, yet, of his ambition to be a doctor, although he had no reason to believe the minister would object. In fact he would probably be pleased. Medicine was a respectable profession. Of one thing Adam was absolutely certain. He did not wish to go into the church. He hated the kirk. He hated the Sabbath. He hated the Bible and he hated the terrible guilt he felt about hating them all so much. Only one part of his duties as the minister’s child had ever appealed to him and that was visiting the poor and sick of the parish with his mother. It was something she had done extremely well and in spite of her English background they liked her. She did not condescend or patronise. She was cheerful, helpful and not afraid to roll up her sleeves. The people respected her and Adam had swiftly absorbed the fact that half an hour in her company clearly did more for an ailing woman or an injured man than hours of preaching from his father. Sometimes they met Dr Grogan on their rounds and Adam would, when permitted, or simply not noticed in the corner of the room, watch. He had been only ten when his medical ambition first began to take shape.

A week after his world had changed so abruptly Adam, a packed lunch in his bag as well as his supper because Mrs Barron had gone on the bus to Perth to see her sister as she did every week, set off up the hillside towards the carved stone.

He had thought often about Brid and her brother and her mother and their kindness, but he had told no one about them. His natural openness, his enthusiasm, his love of life had all gone. The beating and the loss of his mother had changed him. Jeannie Barron could see it and her heart bled for the boy. She mothered him as much as she could, but he shrank a little from her when she hugged him. He tolerated her affection courteously but no more. It was as though he had closed down some part of himself and surrounded it in a protective shell. And the new Adam was secretive. He could have told his mother about his new friends. Without her there, he would tell no one.

It was a blustery day with an exhilarating autumnal bite in the wind. Besides his food and his field glasses, which were hanging round his neck on a strap, he had his specimen boxes with him – to collect interesting things for his museum – his bird book and a notebook and pencil, and he had stolen four slices of chocolate cake from the pantry. The three extra pieces were for Brid and her family. He knew Mrs Barron would see but he knew she wouldn’t tell. His father didn’t know the cake was there. Almost certainly he would have disapproved of it.

He reached the stone, panting, and swung his bag off his shoulders. He already had three birds to put in his notebook. Grouse, of course, skylark and siskin. He pulled the battered volume out, his thin brown fingers fumbling with the buckle on the outside pocket of the green canvas knapsack and, sucking the pencil lead for a moment to make it write better, he began to make his notes.

He had planned to eat lunch, to watch birds, and then in the afternoon to make his way down the far side of the hill to Brid’s cottage.

The first part of the plan went well. He sat down on a slab of exposed rock, his back to the stone, facing the view down the heather-covered hill. It was growing brown in places now, the vibrant purple of the weeks before fading. He heard the lonely cry of an eagle, and putting down his wedge of pork pie he picked up his field glasses and squinted with them towards the distant cloud-hung peaks of the mountains behind the hill.

It wasn’t until he had finished the last of his food, drunk half his ginger beer and folded the remains of the greaseproof paper neatly into his knapsack beside the carefully preserved slices of cake that he stood up and decided to go and look for Brid.

The sun was out now. It blazed down on the heather from a strangely cloudless sky. He sniffed. He had lived in this part of the world all his life and he could read the weather signs clearly. The wind had dropped. He would have an hour, maybe two, then he would see the mist beginning to collect in the folds of the hills and drift over the distant peaks, which would grow hazy and then disappear.

He stood for a moment, staring round, and then he lifted the glasses and began a systematic search beyond the stand of old Scots pine for the track which had led to the burn next to which Brid’s cottage stood.

Spotting the track at last he set off, trotting confidently down the north-facing slope of the ridge, leaving the carved cross-slab behind him. He reached the trees and paused. The shadow he had thought was the track was just that, a shadow thrown by a slight change in the contour of the hill. He frowned, wishing he had taken more notice of where he was going when he had followed her before.

‘Brid!’ He cupped his hands around his mouth and called. The shout sounded almost indecent in the quiet of the afternoon. Somewhere nearby a grouse flew up squawking the traditional warning ‘go-back’. He stood still. On the horizon the landmarks were disappearing one by one as the mist closed in.

‘Brid!’ He tried again, his voice echoing slightly across the valley. Disappointment hovered at the back of his mind. He hadn’t realised how much he had been looking forward to seeing her and her brother again.

Pushing through the bracken, he headed away from the Scots pine downhill. The fold in the rock there looked familiar. If he remembered correctly he would find the burn there, running between steep banks. He was wading through the undergrowth now, feeling the tough stems of heather and bracken tearing at his legs, and he was out of breath when at last he burst through it onto the flat outcrop of rocks where, sure enough, the burn hurtled down over a series of steep falls to the pool beneath, the pool where Gartnait had caught the trout. He frowned. It was the right place, he was sure of it, but it couldn’t be. There was no sign of the little rough cottage where they lived; where he had spent that fateful night. He scrambled down the slippery rocks: here. He was sure it had been here. He gazed round, confused. The grass was long and lush, watered by the spray from the falls. There was no sign of the fire.

It was obviously the wrong place. If he followed the burn down he would find the right one. He searched until it began to grow dark, becoming more and more annoyed with himself as his systematic crossing and recrossing of the ridge brought him back again to the same spot.

In the end he had to give up. He sat down and ate the pieces of cake himself, then admitting that there was nothing else he could do, he made his way back to the manse, tired and disappointed and depressed.

In the garden he hesitated. His father’s study was lit; the shutters were fastened so he could not see in. Tiptoeing round to the kitchen door he cautiously turned the handle. To his relief the door opened and he crept inside.

He did not pause in the hallway. Running up the stairs as fast as he could on silent feet, he dived on up, past his official bedroom, unslept in now since the day his mother had left, and up again to the attic. There he had made himself a mattress with a line of old cushions and covered it with some bedclothes. Still fully dressed and wearing his shoes, he flung himself down on his improvised bed and pulling a blanket over his head he cried himself to sleep.

It was two hours later that he heard the footsteps below him on the landing. He had awoken with a start and he lay for a moment, wondering what had happened. He was still fully clothed. Then he remembered.

He tensed. There it was again. The sound of heavy footsteps. His father. Quietly he crawled out of the bed and, standing up, moved silently towards the door. His heart was pounding. The sounds grew louder and for a moment he thought his father was on his way up to the attic, then they drew away again and it began to dawn on Adam that his father was pacing the floor of the bedroom beneath him. He listened for a long time, then at last, careful not to make a sound himself, he climbed back under the blankets and humped his pillow over his head.

He did not sleep for long. At first light, he was awakened by the sound of a blackbird. He crawled out of bed and went to look out of the window. The churchyard beyond the hedge was grey. There were no streaks of sunlight yet above the eastern hills. He padded across the floor to the window on the opposite side of the attic. From where he stood he could almost see up the high hillside to where the cross-slab stood.

Making his mind up quickly he pulled a thick sweater over his sleep-crumpled clothes and let himself out of the room.

On the landing outside his parents’ room he stopped, holding his breath. From behind the door he could hear the sound of husky broken sobs. He listened for a moment, appalled, then he turned and ran.

In the kitchen he grabbed the rest of the cake and a box of shortbread and another bottle of ginger beer from the cold floor of the pantry. Cramming them into his knapsack he paused for a moment to snatch Mrs Barron’s shopping list pad and scribble, Have gone birdwatching. Don’t worry. He propped it up against the teapot, then he unlocked the door and let himself out into the garden.

It was very cold. In seconds his shoes were soaked with dew and his feet were frozen. He rammed his hands into his pockets and sped towards the street and he was already across the river and at the bottom of the hill when the first rim of sunlight slid between the distant mountain peaks and bathed the Tay in brilliant cold light.

He did not have to search for Brid’s house this time. She found him as he was sitting leaning against the stone, eating the last piece of cake for his breakfast.

‘A-dam?’ The voice behind him was soft but even so he leaped out of his skin.

‘Brid!’

They stared at each other helplessly, both wanting to say more, both knowing there was no point. Until they found a way of communicating they were impotent. At last, on inspiration, Adam dived into his bag and cursing the fact that he had eaten the cake himself he brought out the shortbread. Breaking off a piece he handed it to her shyly. She took it and sniffed it cautiously, then she bit it.

‘Shortbread.’ Adam repeated the word clearly.

She looked at him, head slightly to one side, eyes bright, and she nodded enthusiastically. ‘Shortbread,’ she said after him.

‘Good?’ he asked. He mimed good.

She giggled. ‘Good?’ she said.

‘Gartnait?’ he asked. He had a piece for her brother.

She pointed to the cross-slab. ‘Gartnait,’ she said. It sounded like a confirmation. Jumping up, she tugged at Adam’s hand.

He followed her, aware that with the sunrise had come the mist, wreathing through the trees and up the hillside. It had already reached the stone. He shivered, feeling it hit him like a physical blow as he walked after the girl. She glanced over her shoulder and he saw for a moment the look of doubt in her eyes, then it was gone, the mist was sucked up in the heat of the sun and Gartnait was there, sitting close to the cross. In his hand he had a hammer and in the other a punch.

‘Oh, I say, you can’t do that!’ Adam was shocked.

Gartnait looked up and grinned.

‘Tell him he can’t. That cross is special. It’s hundreds – thousands – of years old. He mustn’t touch it! It’s part of history,’ Adam appealed to her, but she ignored him. She was holding out a piece of shortbread to her brother.

‘Shortbread,’ she repeated fluently.

Adam was staring at the back of the cross. Instead of the sequence of weathered patterns he was used to seeing – the incised circles, the Z-shaped broken spear, the serpent, the mirror, the crescent moon – the face of the stone looked new. It was untouched, with only a small part of one of the designs begun in one corner, the punch-marks fresh and sharp.

Adam ran his fingers over the raw clean edges and he heard Brid draw in her breath sharply. She shook her head and pulled his hand away. Don’t touch. Her meaning was clear. She glanced over her shoulder as though she were afraid.

Adam was confused for a moment. The cross – the proper, old cross – must be there in the mist and Gartnait was copying it. He looked again at the young man’s handiwork and he was impressed.

They sat together and ate the shortbread, then Gartnait picked up his chisel again. It was as he was working away at the intricate shape of the crescent moon, with Brid watching, giggling as Adam taught her the names of the plants and trees around them, that Gartnait suddenly paused in his chipping and listened. Brid fell silent at once. She looked round, frightened.

‘What is it?’ Adam glanced from one to the other.

She put her finger to her lips, her eyes on her brother’s face.

Adam strained his ears. He could hear nothing but the faint whisper of the wind through the dry heather stems.

Abruptly Gartnait gave Brid an order which galvanised her into action. She leaped to her feet and grabbed Adam’s wrist. ‘Come. Quick.’ They were words he had taught her already.

‘Why? What’s wrong?’ He was bewildered.

‘Come.’ She was dragging him away from her brother towards the trees.

‘Brid!’ Gartnait called after her. He gabbled some quick instructions and she nodded, still clutching Adam’s hand. The mist had drifted back across the hill and they dived into it as Adam saw two figures approaching in the distance. Clearly Brid did not intend him to meet them. In seconds he and Brid were concealed in the mist and their visitors were out of sight.

She led the way, confidently recognising landmarks he couldn’t see and almost at once they were emerging near the spot where he had first seen her.

He looked round nervously. Surely Gartnait and the two strangers were only a few paces away behind the stone? He glanced back, seeing its shape looming out of the murk, touched now by the early morning sun. There was no sign of Gartnait or his unwelcome visitors.

‘Who are they?’ Adam mimed his question.

Brid shrugged. To explain was too complicated, clearly, and she was still afraid. She tugged his hand and, her finger to her lips, again headed down the hillside. Of Gartnait there was no sign.

The day was spoiled. She was clearly afraid and although she sat down near him when he beckoned her towards a sheltered rock from where they could survey the valley, which was still bathed in sunshine, in only a few minutes she had risen to her feet.

‘Goodbye, A-dam.’ She took his hand and gave it a little tug.

‘Can I come again tomorrow?’ He couldn’t keep the anxiety out of his voice.

She smiled and shrugged. ‘Tomorrow?’

How do you mime tomorrow? He shrugged too, defeated.

She shook her head and with a little wave of her hand turned and ran back up the hill on silent feet. He slumped back against the rock, disappointed.

She wasn’t there tomorrow or the next day. Twice he went up the hill again and twice he searched all day for their cottage and for Gartnait’s stone, but there was no sign of either. Both times he returned home feeling let down and puzzled.

‘Where have you been all day?’ His father was sitting opposite him in the cold dining room.

‘Walking, Father.’ The boy’s hands tightened nervously on his knife and fork and he put them down on his plate.

‘I saw Mistress Gillespie at the post office today. She said you hadn’t been down to play with the boys.’

‘No, Father.’

How could he explain the side-long looks, the sniggers?

He studied the pattern on his plate with furious concentration as if imprinting the delicate ivy-leaf design around the rim on his retinas.

‘Are you looking forward to starting school again?’ The minister was trying hard. His own eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his hands shaking slightly. When his plate was only half empty he pushed the food aside and gave up. Adam couldn’t keep his eyes off the remains of his father’s supper. If he himself left anything he was normally the recipient of a lecture on waste and was told to sit there until he had eaten it. Seething with sudden resentment, he wished he dare say something, but he remained silent. The atmosphere in the room was tense. He hated it and, he realised it at last, he hated his father.

Miserably he shook his head as his father offered him a helping from the cold trifle left on the sideboard and he sat with bowed head whilst Thomas, clearly relieved that the meal was over, said a quick prayer of thanks and stood up. ‘I have a sermon to write.’ It was said almost apologetically.

Adam looked up. For a brief moment he felt an unexpected wave of compassion sweep over him as he met his father’s eyes. The next he had looked away coldly. Their unhappiness was, after all, his father’s fault.

‘A-dam!’ She had crept up beside him as he lay on the grass, his arm across his eyes to block off the glare from the sun.

He removed his arm and smiled without sitting up. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Hello, A-dam.’ She knelt beside him and dropped a handful of grass-seed heads on his face. ‘A-dam, shortbread?’ She pointed to the knapsack which lay beside him.

He laughed. ‘You’re a greedy miss, that’s what you are.’ He unfastened it and brought out the tin of shortbread. He was pleased she had remembered the word. He glanced round. ‘Gartnait?’

She shook her head.

As he peered round the cross-slab to see if her brother was there she wagged her finger. ‘No, A-dam. No go there.’

‘Why not? Where have you been? Why couldn’t I find you?’ He was growing increasingly frustrated at this inability to communicate with her properly.

She sat down beside him and began to pull the lid off the shortbread tin. She seemed uninterested in further conversation, leaning back on her elbows, sucking at the soft buttery biscuit, licking her lips. The sun came out from behind a cloud, throwing a bright beam across her face and she closed her eyes. He studied her for a moment. She had dark hair and strong regular features. When the bright, grey eyes, slightly slanted, were closed, as now, her face was tranquil yet still full of character, but when those eyes were open her whole expression came alive, vivacious and enquiring. Silver lights danced in her eyes and her firm, quirky mouth twitched with humour. She was peeping at him beneath her long dark lashes, conscious of his scrutiny, reacting with an instinctive coquetry that had not been there before. Abruptly she sat up.

‘A-dam.’ She was saying his name more fluently now, more softly, but with the same intonation which he found so beguiling.

He ceased his scrutiny abruptly, feeling himself blush. ‘It’s time we learned each other’s language,’ he said firmly. ‘Then we can all talk together.’

She moved, with a graceful wiggle of her hips, onto her knees and pointed down the valley the way he had come. ‘A-dam, big shortbread?’ she said coaxingly.

He burst out laughing. ‘All right. More shortbread. Next time I come.’

He hadn’t planned to follow her. He just couldn’t stop himself. He had spent the afternoon teaching her words, astonished by the phenomenal memory which retained faultlessly everything he told her. He taught her more trees and flowers and birds; he taught her the names of their clothes; he taught her arms and legs and heads and eyes and hair and all the items in his knapsack; he taught her walk and sit and run. He taught her the sky and the sun, the wind and the words for laugh and cry, and they had ‘talked’ and giggled and finished all the shortbread, and then at last she had glanced up at the sun. She frowned, obviously realising how late it was, and scrambled to her feet. ‘Bye bye, A-dam.’

He was taken by surprise. ‘But it’s hours until dark. Do you have to go?’

It was no use. She shrugged and turning, with a little wave, she dodged behind the stone slab and out of his sight.

He leaped to his feet. ‘Brid, wait. When shall I see you? When shall I come again?’

There was no answer. He ran a few steps after her and stopped in confusion. There was no sign of her. He retraced his steps to the spot where he had been standing and then turning, followed in her exact tracks. The afternoon seemed to have grown misty again. He stood, his hand on the stone, and peered ahead and suddenly there she was, running down the hillside in the thin sunshine. He set off after her, not shouting this time, deliberately following her at a distance and consciously noticing the way they were going.

She was following a clear track which he did not remember seeing before. He frowned, looking at the wood below him on his right. That was where the Scots pine should be. There were Scots pine, but too many – many many more than he remembered, unless they had already slipped unnoticed into a different valley. That was perfectly possible. One often did not see ridges and glens in the hills until one was upon them. He realised she was fast disappearing from sight and he plunged after her, aware of the strong smell of the heather and the baking earth and rock. Overhead a buzzard was calling, the wild yelping miaou growing fainter as it spiralled higher and higher until it was nothing but a speck in the blue.

The first he noticed of the village was the thin spiral of white smoke, almost invisible against the sky. He slowed down, trying to get his breath back, more cautious now. Brid was skipping unselfconsciously about a hundred yards ahead of him as he ducked behind some low whin bushes. She stopped and seemed to be gathering some flowers, then she moved on, holding them in her hand, more decorous now. He saw her surreptitiously rub some dust from her skirt and run her fingers through her hair.

He hesitated for a moment, then he ducked out of his hiding place and ran a few paces further on, to throw himself full length behind a small outcrop of rock. From there he peered at her again. Two figures had appeared on the dusty track and he could now see the village more clearly. It consisted of little more than a cluster of small round houses situated around a larger, central one. He squinted to see the figures better and recognised the taller of the two as Gartnait. The young man stopped when he saw Brid and waited for her. From the way he stood, the flailing of his arms and Brid’s sudden, obvious dejection, it was clear that Gartnait was angry.

Adam, who had been about to leap to his feet and admit to his presence, changed his mind abruptly. He lay where he was, his chin propped on his hands, watching. His vantage point allowed him to see the three figures – the third unknown to him – walk slowly back towards the village. Once there they stood and talked again animatedly for several minutes before at last ducking into a low doorway in one of the houses and disappearing from sight.

He stayed there for a long time, hoping someone would reappear. When it was clear they weren’t going to, he began to crawl slowly forward, taking advantage of the clumps of long dried grasses as the only reasonable cover to hide him. Once he heard a dog bark. He dropped flat, pressing his nose into the dry earth, smelling its hot peppery sweetness. After a few moments the barking stopped, abruptly silenced by a curt command, in what language he could not tell.

He waited, holding his breath. There was no further sound and he raised his head again to find himself looking at a pair of soft leather sandals. Leaping to his feet in fright he found himself half suspended by the collar, face to face with a tall, white-haired man with fierce dark eyes, a fine aquiline face and a narrow mouth set in a tight-lipped scowl. The man barked a question at him and Adam wriggled desperately, half angry and half afraid.

‘Let me go! I’m not doing any harm! Let me go! I’m a friend of Brid’s.’ He flailed out uselessly with his fists and the man put him down, transferring his iron grip to Adam’s wrist. Turning he strode towards the village, pulling Adam with him. The boy wriggled harder, his initial alarm turning to real fear. The look in the man’s eyes had been uncompromising and Adam knew that look well.

As they walked down the dirt track which served for a village street Adam saw faces at the doors. One by one the inhabitants appeared. Dark, shaggy-haired, dressed in strange bright-coloured woollen or leather breeches, the men were staring at him aggressively. Behind them he could see the women, most of them swathed in shawls, half hidden in the dark depths of the cottages, and suddenly he knew who they were. This must be a camp of tinkers – or real Romanies perhaps – from far away. He had seen tinkers, of course, in the village at home. Two or three times a year some of them would come, camping on the riverbank; they would mend the pots and pans of the housewives, and sharpen their knives, and then when the factor decided too many salmon had disappeared from the river they would move on overnight with their colourful vans and their ponies. He had heard that they had settlements somewhere over the hills where they went in the wintertime and this must be one of them. The realisation comforted him. Somewhere at the back of his mind had lurked a niggling fear about where Brid came from – a shiver, no more – something he couldn’t put a name to. To find out that she was a gypsy was a reassurance. The tinkers were always friendly. They got on well with the village children at home and the folk all got on well with them. Except for the factor of course, and the ghillies.

He stared round, trying to see Brid and Gartnait, and finally spotted them at the back of the crowd. He felt a surge of relief. ‘Brid!’ he cried. ‘Make him let me go!’ He wriggled, tried to bite the hand holding him and received a cuff on the ear for his pains. The tall man had followed his gaze and was also staring at Brid. He pointed at her and shouted a command. The men and women around her fell back. Brid looked terrified. Slowly she moved forward through the silent, staring crowd and came to stand in front of them.

‘Brid, tell him! Tell him I’m your friend,’ Adam begged. The man’s grip on his arm had not slackened. His head, Adam had noticed for the first time, was half shaven and there were dark tattoos on his forehead beneath the wild white rim of hair.

Brid shook her head. Covering her face with her hands she fell on her knees. Adam could see tears trickling from between her fingers. ‘Brid?’ He had stopped struggling, shocked by her abject terror.

It was Gartnait who stepped up behind her. He rested his hands gently on his sister’s shoulders and spoke to the tall man, his voice calm and clear.

Adam glanced from one to the other. Both men, he noticed, were wearing silver bracelets on their arms. Gartnait had a sort of necklet around his throat and beneath his cloak the short sleeves of his tunic showed that he too had intricately coloured tattoos on his arms and an intricately wrought golden band above his elbow. It made him look exotic and foreign. Very glamorous. Adam found his eyes going from one man to the other. His father disapproved of jewellery. He thought it an abomination, as he thought so many things were which were clearly nice or fun or beautiful. His mother owned none save her wedding ring. He had never seen a man wear jewellery save for the tinkers in the village who sometimes wore earrings, and Lord Pittenross who owned the estate and wore a gold signet ring with a carved crest on the little finger of his left hand. Adam, in spite of his fear, was impressed.

The tall man’s grip had slackened slightly as he stood listening to Gartnait and Adam snatched his arm away. He rubbed it defiantly, squaring his shoulders, feeling braver now. He gave Brid a quick grin but she was still kneeling with her hands over her eyes.

It was the turn of the tall man to speak now. He gestured at Adam, sweeping the boy with a withering look which took in his open-necked shirt, his shorts, his bare brown legs and his dusty sandals. It was then that the man pulled out a knife.

Adam gasped. Nearby, one of the watching women groaned. Gartnait went on talking calmly as though nothing had happened, but his fingers on his sister’s thin shoulders had tightened until the knuckles went white.

Brid took her hands away from her eyes. Her face was very pale. ‘Run, A-dam!’ she cried suddenly. ‘RUN!’

Adam ran.

He turned like an eel beneath the man’s flailing hand and diving through the crowd fled as fast as he could back the way he had come. His sudden movement had taken them all by surprise and it was a moment before the tall man started in pursuit. But he gave up almost at once. No one else had moved.

Adam did not wait to see what happened. He pounded up the track, jumping over stones and heather, leaping from rock to rock across the burn and slithering down a gully which took him out of sight of the village. At the bottom he lay still, gasping for breath. His heart was hammering somewhere in his throat and his legs were trembling with exhaustion and shock.

When at last he raised his head and looked around he half expected to see the tall man there again standing over him. There was no one there. The gully was deserted. Nearby he could hear a stonechat calling, its metallic voice an eerie echo of the sound of Gartnait’s hammer, and the distant slithering cascade of scree in the wake of his passing. Nothing else. He raised himself up and peered round carefully before climbing slowly up to the top of the rocks and looking behind him. There was no sign of the village. It was out of sight behind the shoulder of the hill and the heather and rocks were empty of any signs of pursuit. And of any landmarks he recognised.

He knew that to find his way home he needed to go south-east. He glanced at the sun, though he knew already which way he should go from the lie of the distant hills.

Not until the sun had set behind the shoulder of Ben Dearg did he admit at last that he was lost. He could feel the fear crawling in the pit of his stomach. The hillside looked familiar, but he could not see the stone. He could see no sign of anything he recognised. Feeling for footholds as silently as he could amongst the blaeberries and sliding scree he crept up to the rim of the gully and peered over the edge. The outline of the distant hills was the same as always, as were the contours of the glen below, but he could not see the cross-slab. In the distance he noticed suddenly the curl of smoke against the sky that showed the location of Brid’s village and he calmed himself down with an effort. After all, he had been exploring these hills with his friends since he was old enough to slip away from the village. What would his heroes do in these circumstances? Men like Richard Hannay or Sexton Blake, Alan Breck or the Scarlet Pimpernel? He didn’t have a compass but he would use his watch with the sun. With new determination he set off in what he hoped was the right direction, his back resolutely to Brid’s village, hoping that whatever was happening there she would not get into any further trouble because of him.

Wraiths of mist were curling through the trees when he at last found the stone cross again. It was the copy, the one that Gartnait was working on. He rested his hand on it, touching the sharp-edged carving of the looping intricate designs with his fingertips. Gartnait had stopped halfway through incising a broken spear. He could feel the shallow punch-marks outlining the design.

In the east, the deep amethyst dusk was beginning to hover over the valley. It hid the distances from sight, wrapping the whole area in darkness.

He stepped away from the stone, looking round for the older original, the landmark which had stood on the hill for fourteen hundred years. There was no sign of it. The air was very still.

Frowning, he moved a few paces forward, overwhelmed suddenly by a strange dizziness. His head was spinning. He had been running too fast. He stumbled, shaking his head from side to side, trying to rid himself of the slight buzzing in his ears. Then the moment had passed and his head cleared. Below him the mistiness had drifted away and in the distance he could see the grey stone roofs of the forge and the post office, the lights from the main street, and the shoulder of hillside above the waterfalls which hid the manse from his view, while behind him the old cross caught a last shaft of slanting light from the sun as it slid over the horizon.

3

‘A-dam?’ The hand on his shoulder was as light as thistledown. He started and sat up. ‘Brid?’

It was the spring. The Easter vacation. Ten whole days of freedom stretched before him. Adam had come back several times in the autumn but there had been no sign of Brid or Gartnait, no trace, though he cautiously searched, of the shabby cottage or the village. Frustrated, he pored over maps and books in the library for signs of the place, but to no avail, and when the snows came to the mountains he gave up looking and concentrated, much to his father’s satisfaction, on his school books.

He had also given up hoping for a message from his mother. He no longer raced to meet the postie or hid on the stairs peering through the banisters, his heart thudding with hope when there was a knock on the door.

Sometimes, at night, he cried for her, secretly, his head under the pillow to drown his stifled sobs. His father never mentioned her and he did not dare ask. He was not to know that there had been letters; four of them. Enclosed in the missives she sent to her husband, pleading for forgiveness and understanding, the lonely, frightened, desperate woman’s declarations of love for her son went unread into the waste paper basket and slowly, miles away to the south, her despair of ever seeing Adam again grew greater. Once she had come on the bus and stood, hidden by a hedge, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but her fear of being spotted by someone from the village, or worse still by her husband had been too great, and, in tears, she had caught the next bus back to Perth and then the train south. She did not know that that day Adam had been far away on the hillside, lost in dreams.

Jeannie Barron knew no more than Adam did. Her heart ached for the boy as she saw his white face and the tell-tale red-rimmed eyes in the mornings. When school started he would cycle off while it was still dark to the bus stop in Dunkeld five miles away and there he would catch the bus to Perth, leaving his bicycle hidden behind a hedge. When he returned from the long day, his books in his satchel, it would be dark once again and there was no question of going anywhere but, after supper, to his own room. When the snows came he would stay in Perth during the week, lodging with Jeannie Barron’s cousin Ella as he had done since he first went to the Academy.

‘Brid!’ He grinned with pleasure. ‘I thought I wouldn’t see you again!’ He had been terrified for her after he had fled from her village, his memory of the tall, angry man and the gleaming knife-blade haunting his worse nightmares.

‘A-dam, shortbread?’ She sat down beside him and, reaching for his knapsack, rummaged through it hopefully. It contained his bird book and field glasses, the notebook and an apple.

He shrugged. ‘No shortbread. Sorry.’

‘No shortbread. Sorry,’ she repeated.

‘Have the apple.’ He picked it out and handed it to her.

She looked at it doubtfully.

‘Surely you know an apple!’ He shook his head in despair and taking it back from her took a huge bite to demonstrate.

She laughed and nodded and taking it back from him followed suit, displaying her small white teeth. Like him she had grown taller in the intervening months.

‘Apple good.’ She nodded.

‘Brid, why was that man so angry when I came to your village? Who was he?’ He was trying to mime the question.

She looked at him and for a moment he thought she understood. The quick intelligence in her eyes, the sudden tension of her shoulders betrayed her, but she shook her head and smiled. ‘Apple good,’ she repeated.

Frustrated, he shrugged. Then he had an idea. ‘I’m going to teach you some more English,’ he announced suddenly. ‘Then we can talk properly.’

His lessons went on all through the summer. Adam, his knapsack laden with shortbread, or scones or chocolate cake – immediately popular with Brid – met her on the long evenings and at weekends and then in the vacation. Most of the time they stayed on the southern slopes of the hillside, making no attempt to go to her village. He had pushed Brid on the subject of the man’s identity, but she had changed the subject with a shrug. One thing was clear however: whoever he was, she was very afraid of him. A couple of times they visited the cottage where her mother lived, just for the summer, he discovered, so Gartnait could be near the carving, for carving the slab seemed to be his full-time occupation. In the winter it appeared he had a workshop and men to help him but there was something special about this carving, something special about this stone, so that he had to work on it in situ. Sometimes they would sit and watch him for hours and he too would join in the language lessons while he worked, his chisels, hammers, punches and polishing stones laid out neatly in a row beside him.

Brid was a very fast learner and talkative and it was not long before she had overcome the frustrations of not being able to communicate with her companion. Adam for his part had already found out from his lamentable marks in Latin and French at school that languages were not amongst his strengths. His tongue tied itself in knots around the words she tried to teach him and he could remember few of them though he loved the way she laughed till she cried when he tried. Her fluency though made it easy for her to avoid his questions when she wanted to, and eventually he gave up asking about her village and her people. Gypsies, he supposed, must be naturally secretive, and with that conclusion he had to be content.

Jeannie Barron, discovering that chocolate cake was one of the ways to make Adam happy, made them more often and the two young people grew brown together in the sun as they picnicked and paddled in the burns through the hot spell. Adam made no effort to see the boys who had once been his friends. He no longer knew or cared if they avoided him. He seldom saw his father, who himself stayed out late more often. If he had known that Thomas was spending more and more time in agonised prayer, locked alone in the kirk, he might have felt a glimmer of sympathy, he might have sensed his father’s turmoil and loneliness and confusion, but he did not allow himself to think about his father at all. There were only three adults now in his life whom he trusted: Donald Ferguson, one of his science masters at school, Jeannie Barron, and Brid’s mother, Gemma.

‘A-dam, today we go see eagles.’ Brid adored his bird book. She pored over the pages and told him the names of many of the birds in her own tongue – names he could never remember. To his surprise she couldn’t write, so he had added that skill to his lessons, reassuring her when she fumbled with pencils, praising her when they found to the surprise of both of them that she could draw.

The eagles had an eyrie high on the side of Ben Dearg. To reach it they had to walk for a couple of hours, scrambling over increasingly steep rock and heather before stopping and sliding down the first of the deep corries that ran from east to west across the high moor. Halfway along, near the foot of the rockface, a torrent of brown burn water cascaded over a cliff some twenty feet or so into a circular pool before racing on down the mountainside. As they came to the edge of the cliff, several deer looked up startled and stared at them for a moment before bounding away out of sight.

Adam smiled at her. She was wearing as she always did a simple tunic, this one dyed in soft blues and greens, tied at the waist with a leather girdle in which she wore a serviceable knife. On her feet she wore sandals, not buckled like his but fastened round the ankles with long ribbon-like thongs. Her long hair she had fastened back with a silver clip. ‘We gave them a fright.’

She nodded. She had reached the pool first and she stopped and waited for him. Adam fell to his knees and bent over the water, splashing it over his hot face. ‘We could swim here.’ He grinned at her. ‘It’s deep. Look.’

She looked at him doubtfully and then at the dark water. ‘Swimming not allowed here.’

‘Why not? You paddle in the burn. It’s not that deep. I’ll show you.’

Before she could stop him he had pulled his shirt over his head and kicked off his shorts. Dressed only in his underpants, he leaped into the brown water.

It was much deeper than he expected and ice cold. He swam a few strokes under water, reached the vertical rock wall on the far side, ducked into a turn and rose to the surface gasping.

‘A-dam!’ Brid was kneeling on the rock at the edge of the pool. She was looking furious now. She held out her hands to him. ‘Come out. You must not swim.’

‘Why not?’ He shook his wet hair out of his eyes and struck out across the pool towards her. He was there in four strokes. ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’

She was pulling at his arm. ‘Get out! Get out! Get out quickly!’ She stamped her foot.

‘What is it, Brid? What’s wrong?’ He levered himself out beside her. ‘You’re not afraid, surely?’

‘A-dam! The lady in the pool. You have not paid her!’ Brid was whispering angrily.

‘The lady?’ He stared at her. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘The lady. She lives in the pool. She looks after it.’

Adam looked puzzled for a moment, then light dawned. ‘Like the cailleach, you mean? The old witch. A spirit. Brid! You don’t believe that? That’s wicked. That’s against the Bible.’ He was shocked.

She shook her head, not understanding him. Going to the knapsack which was lying on the ground in the shade of a rock, she rummaged in it until she found the greaseproof-wrapped cake. Opening the paper she drew her knife and carefully cut the wedge of cake into three. ‘For A-dam. For Brid. And for the Lady.’ She pointed to each slice in turn. Picking up the third piece she walked with it to the edge of the pool and climbed carefully out onto the rocks, which were slippery with spray, until she was as close as possible to the waterfall. Crumbling the cake between her fingers, slowly she dropped it piece by piece beneath the cascade, chanting some words under her breath as she did so.

When she had finished she stood still for a moment, staring round anxiously as though waiting to see if her offering had been accepted.

‘Brid!’ Adam was appalled.

She silenced him with an abrupt gesture, still scanning the water, then she pointed. He saw a small shadow flash past and it was gone.

‘That was a trout,’ he said indignantly.

She shook her head. Then in another lightning change of mood she clapped her hands and laughed. ‘Trout messenger of the Lady!’ she cried. She skipped back onto the bank. ‘The Lady is pleased. Now we swim.’ She sat down and began to unlace her sandals.

Beneath her tunic Brid was naked. She stood for a second on the rock, her body a pale contrast to her tanned arms and legs, then she leaped into the water with a splash and a delighted shriek.

Adam stood still. He caught his breath. He had seen the baby sisters of his friends sometimes without their clothes when their mothers bathed them before the fire, and he had always averted his eyes, particularly avoiding looking at the shockingly naked slit between their legs. He was still seriously intending to be a doctor, but he had never seen an older girl or a woman without clothes before, and now he had seen for a short moment when she stood untroubled on the rock this slim girl, young woman; seen her small firm breasts, the dark fuzz of hair between her legs, the provocative curve of hip and buttock before she leaped into the water.

He had never before considered how old Brid was. About his own age, he assumed, but she was his friend, his pal. He had never thought of her for a single moment as being like the giggling girls in Pittenross or Dunkeld, but his body, to his extreme embarrassment, was reacting by itself.

He stood where he was, mortified, the water dripping in pools around his feet as Brid flung back her hair, which had come free of its clip, treading water near him. ‘Come, A-dam,’ she called. ‘Come in. Nice.’

He smiled uncertainly, his eyes on her breasts as the water cascaded over her shoulders. Dark strands of hair plastered her back and clung to her pale skin.

‘Come.’ She had realised suddenly the effect she was having on him and her smile became provocative. She ran her fingers over her body, resting them for a moment on the pert nipples before sweeping them down over her hips. ‘A-dam. Come.’ Her voice had deepened. It held command. He hesitated for only a moment longer.

The cold water brought him sharply to his senses. Spluttering, he struck out for the far side of the pool, dodged round her and ducked under the waterfall itself. The noise was deafening. He was totally enveloped in the icy torrent, encircled by it, deafened by it, stunned by it. He trod water immediately under the fall and raised his face, feeling the power of it thundering over him. It was choking him, stifling him, drowning him. Abruptly he lowered his head, ducking out of it, gasping desperately to regain his breath.

Brid swam over to him in alarm. ‘A-dam? Are you all right?’ She touched his arm, her fingers cold.

He pulled away and felt the firmness of her naked thigh against his underneath the water. He reacted as though he had been burned. With a yell he turned away and flailed towards the side of the pool. Pulling himself up onto the rock he lay there for a moment on his back, trying to catch his breath.

She was right behind him. ‘A-dam?’ She knelt over him, the water dripping from her breasts. ‘A-dam, what is wrong? Did the water go in you?’ She had one hand on his shoulder, the other on his belly, gentle, concerned. ‘Poor A-dam. You went under the falling water. Only the Lady goes there. She was cross with you.’

He opened his eyes. ‘There is no lady, Brid,’ he gasped. ‘Saying there is, is evil. Wicked. You will go to hell if you believe such things.’

‘Hell?’ She was kneeling beside him, looking puzzled now, her long wet hair modestly shrouding her breasts.

‘Hell. Hades. Inferno.’ Adam was sounding increasingly desperate. ‘Brid, you have heard of Our Lord? Of Jesus?’

‘Oh, Jesus.’ She smiled. ‘Columcille talked of Jesus. Broichan does not like that. Brude, the king, he likes Jesus.’

‘The king?’ Adam was frowning at this torrent of strange names. The sun was in his eyes now as he lay back on the baking rock, Brid a black silhouette above him. ‘You mean King George?’

‘King Brude,’ she said firmly. ‘The Lady punish you, A-dam. She make water go in you. You must give her a present. Say sorry.’

‘I am not going to say sorry to a heathen spirit!’ he said hotly. He struggled to sit up, but she pushed him back, surprisingly strong. ‘A-dam, say sorry or she make you die.’

She had learned the word die when they had found a stag, its neck broken, at the foot of a cliff. To his surprise she had cried for it, her hands gently caressing the rough red-brown fur on its nose as it expired, its head in her arms. She was anything but gentle now.

‘She can’t make me die.’ A shiver sent goosepimples over his skin.

She nodded, her face transformed with such fury he felt a tremor of fear run through him. ‘She can. I serve the Lady, I know about her. I will kill you if she asks me to. She is very cross. You went in her special place. You must give her your piece of cake.’

Adam stared at her in horror. ‘I will not!’

‘You give her your piece of cake or she will make you die.’

‘Brid! You’re mad!’ He wondered for a split second as he said it if it were true. She was frightening him. There was a strange uncompromising look in her eyes which he had never seen before. A piece of cake was not going to appease some spirit in the water even if it did exist, which of course it didn’t. He tried to sit up again and this time she let him. She rose gracefully to her feet and stood before him. ‘A-dam, please. Give her a present.’ Her voice had assumed a new, deep resonance. ‘Anything. Give her your watch.’ She had never seen a watch before and was enchanted by it.

‘I will not.’ He tried to smile. ‘I’d rather she had the cake.’

‘Then give her cake.’ She was firm. She folded her arms.

His eyes had strayed to her breasts and he brought them back to her face with difficulty. ‘All right, if it makes you happy, I’ll throw away the piece of cake.’

‘Not throw away, A-dam. Give it to the Lady.’ She was implacable.

‘Brid –’

‘Give it, A-dam, or I will let her kill you.’ The authority in her voice made him stare at her in awe. From one moment to the next it seemed she had changed from a provocative child-woman to a raging virago, to someone with the authority of one of his teachers at school. Shaking his head, shocked and uncomfortable, he squatted down and meekly reached into his knapsack. He brought out the two remaining slices of cake and taking one he walked across to the pool. She watched in silence as he moved out to the place where she had stood and solemnly broke up the cake and let it fall through his fingers into the water.

‘There. Satisfied?’ He felt cheated; he had been looking forward to the cake. And he also felt guilty and afraid. Thanks to Brid he had made a sacrifice to some pagan gypsy god and in so doing endangered his immortal soul. He sat down on the rocks at the edge of the pool and wrapping his arms around his spindly shins he sank his chin on his knees.

She glanced at him. ‘A-dam?’ The anger had gone from her voice. This time it was soft. Hesitant. ‘A-dam? Why you cross?’

‘I’m not cross.’ He refused to look at her.

‘The Lady happy now. She eat her cake.’

He shuffled round slightly so that his back was towards her.

There was a small sigh. Then he heard the faint rustle of paper and looked round.

‘A-dam eat Brid’s cake.’ The last piece was being offered to him.

‘I don’t want it.’ Crossly he turned away from her again.

‘Please, A-dam.’ She sounded so mournful he was suddenly sorry. He turned. ‘I’ll have a little bit, then.’ He said it as though he were doing her a favour. He reached out and broke off the end of the slice from the piece lying in the paper cradled between her palms.

‘We share.’ She smiled. Sitting down on the rock beside him she broke the remains of the slice in two. Cramming her piece into her mouth she ate it with gusto. The sunlight was playing over her skin, warming it, soothing away the goosepimples where the wind had touched it with cold fingers. Adam looked away, concentrating as hard as he could on the cake in his mouth, pressing the soft sweetness against his teeth with his tongue, savouring the buttery crumbs.

‘Good?’ Brid smiled at him. Where the ends of her hair had dried they rose wispy round her shoulders.

‘Good.’ He nodded. He lay back on the rock, putting his arm across his eyes to shade them from the sun. ‘We’d better get dressed and go on if we want to see the eagles.’ In spite of his words he didn’t want to move; he wanted to stay there with this beautiful naked girl forever.

She was sitting staring out across the water, lost in thought. ‘We see eagles tomorrow,’ she said at last. It had been very hard to teach her what tomorrow meant. And yesterday. ‘We stay here and swim.’

He nodded sleepily. ‘That’s good.’

She was looking at him now, half smiling. He was tanned from the sun. The scars on his back from his father’s whipping had faded. He was a slightly built boy, slim, handsome, his shoulders beginning to broaden as he matured. Leaning towards him she put a gentle hand on his chest. He went rigid; she was bending over him now, her hair still cold and damp, trailing provocatively over his nipples, down towards his belly.

‘A-dam?’ Her voice was soft. Gently she pulled his arm away from his eyes and he looked up startled into her face, which was only a few inches from his.

She smiled, her hands running lightly over his shoulders, down his chest towards his stomach.

He caught at her wrist. ‘Brid, don’t.’

‘A-dam,’ she whispered. She wriggled free. ‘A-dam shut eyes.’

He stared up at her, paralysed, gazing into the depths of her silvery eyes. He had to move. He had to get up and go home. For a moment his father’s furious face flashed before him and he felt a bolt of fear transfix him. But he wanted to stay. More than anything in the world he wanted to stay exactly where he was.

‘A-dam shut eyes,’ she whispered again. She smiled and her grey irises were darkening now, growing deep and mysterious as she put her finger to his lips. Unable to move he shut his eyes and held his breath.

Her kiss was as light as thistledown on his lips. It tasted of cool clear mountain water and of chocolate and it sent a spasm of intense delight shooting through his whole body.

‘Nice, A-dam?’ she said softly. Her hands were on his chest now, playing with his nipples. His senses were beginning to spin. He didn’t know whether to concentrate on his mouth or his chest or on other parts of his body as he felt her lean lower over him, her skin cold and clean from the pool touching his to fire. Her hands had moved down now, gently pulling at his underpants. He opened his mouth to protest and found her mouth there on his, her tongue fluttering provocatively between his teeth. He could not push her away. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by feelings he could not control. With a groan he pulled her face closer to his, returning her kisses, wriggling out from under her so he could throw himself across her and slide between her open legs. ‘Brid!’ he groaned.

His hands were on her breasts and she gasped as he kneaded them harder and harder. ‘Brid!’

The moment of ecstasy which shot through him as he entered her left him exhausted and gasping for breath. For a while she lay still, gazing past him at the brilliant blue of the sky, then in one quick movement she had wriggled from under him and rose gracefully to her feet. She stood staring down at him thoughtfully as he turned to look sleepily up at her, and for a moment, as she held him trapped in her gaze, he felt a wave of fear. The surge of power coming from her was like a physical blow.

‘That was good, A-dam. Nice. Now A-dam mine. Forever!’ Their eyes seemed locked together, and Adam’s fear threatened to lurch into panic. His pulse was racing, his lungs frozen on a trapped breath. Then the moment was over. She looked away and laughed. ‘A-dam tired!’

She took two skipping steps to the edge of the pool and dived in.

Adam shut his eyes. His heart was thundering in his chest and he felt completely spent.

He was roused by a shower of ice-cold water full in the face. ‘A-dam sleeps!’ Her laughter was impish. She was standing over him, dripping, her hands still cupped. He could see the setting sun behind her, surrounding her in a glittering halo of red-gold, and for the first time he realised how long they had been there. He sat up slowly as she sank onto her knees beside him.

‘A-dam happy?’ He could feel her vitality and excitement, and something else, something wild and still, inexplicably, frightening.

He nodded. He was tongue-tied.

She leaned over him and in yet another lightning mood-shift reached for the knapsack. ‘Brid hungry.’ She rummaged through notebook, bird book and binoculars and shook her head dolefully. ‘No cake.’

He laughed and the spell was broken at last. ‘No cake. Your fault. You threw it in the water.’

Jumping to his feet he ran to the pool and threw himself in, feeling the water, gloriously cold and clean, blotting out the terror and self-loathing which was lurking somewhere at the edges of his mind. He swam the length of the pool as hard as he could, and when he struck out back across it he saw that Brid had got dressed. Wringing out her hair with her hands she had fixed it on top of her head with her sliver clip. When he reached the edge she had completed the change from the sultry, demanding woman back into a hungry child. ‘We go to Mama. She gives us bannocks.’

Adam nodded. ‘We’d better hurry. It’s growing dark.’ Now that she was fully clothed the fear was receding and shame and embarrassment were edging forward in his mind. He did not want her to see him naked. He wanted her to turn away as he climbed out of the water, but she stood looking down at him, not moving.

‘Hurry, A-dam.’

‘I’m coming.’ Crossly he began to haul himself out of the water.

But she wasn’t looking at him any longer. Her eyes were on the distant glen where the mist was creeping up amongst the trees. ‘Hurry, A-dam,’ she said again. ‘We go now.’

He had not meant to stay all night. He had intended to find his way home in the dark, but Brid’s mother’s fireside was warm and he was tired. Several times he dozed, leaning back against the rough wall of their house, then at last he slept. Brid smiled at her mother and shrugged and laughed and they pulled a cover over him and left him. Curling up on their own bed of cut heather covered in fleeces they turned their backs to the doorway and slept soundly.

He awoke suddenly. The cottage was cold, the fire smoored beneath its peats, the stone behind his back wet with condensation. He sat still, stiff and uncomfortable, listening to the absolute silence. Brid and her mother were still asleep but something had awoken him. Cautiously he pushed back the woollen blanket they had put over him and he climbed to his feet. He picked his way towards the doorway and pushed aside the leather curtain which at this time of year was its only protection and stepped out into the cold white mist of dawn.

Tiptoeing across to the burn he knelt and was splashing water over his face when behind him he heard the chink of metal on stone. He turned, pushing his dripping hair back from his face, and squinted around him. Seconds later grey shapes appeared at the periphery of his vision and he saw two men leading horses towards the cottage. He stayed where he was, suddenly afraid. One of them was Gartnait, he was fairly sure. The other – he leaned forward, screwing up his eyes, and then almost gasped out loud as he recognised the tall lean figure of the man who had threatened him in Brid’s village. Desperate to find a hiding place, he glanced round. There was nothing to conceal him but the mist.

‘Brid? Mother? Are you awake?’ Gartnait’s voice was shockingly loud in the silence. Though he could not speak it, Adam had picked up enough of their language to follow what was being said. ‘We have a guest.’

He could not see the cottage but moments later he heard a scuffle and then Brid’s mother’s voice, flustered, as she uttered words of greeting, the words almost identical to those she had once used to Adam. ‘Honoured brother, you are welcome to our house and hearth. Sit. Here. I will bring food.’

Brother was the extra word, a word that Adam knew. He frowned. Was it a general term or did it really mean that the man was Brid’s uncle? If so, why on earth had she not said so?

‘Broichan is here to see my carving, Mother.’ Gartnait’s voice was as always strong, easy to hear. ‘Where is my sister?’

‘She is coming. She is bringing bannocks and ale for our guest.’

Adam could imagine their consternation, wondering what would happen if he were still there, and then their relief when they realised that he had gone.

He had to move. At any second the mist could disappear, shredded by a morning wind or sucked up by the sun as soon as it rose over the mountains. He saw a shadow appear and then vanish again: Gartnait, leading the horses to tether them to the tree they called the look-out pine.

Cautiously Adam rose to his feet. He took a step away from the burn onto the fine grass which grew lush in the spray from the rocks. If he could reach the shelter of the trees he could disappear up the corrie and be gone before the day came.

He took another step. Then he froze. A voice, strong, deep, sounded so close to him he thought the man was standing next to him.

‘The king still entertains the Christians at Craig Phádraig. He has commanded that we put up the cross throughout his kingdom to appease the Jesus God. He believes Columcille has power to defeat mine!’

‘Then surely, Uncle, he is very wrong.’ Gartnait’s voice came in snatches. There was a shift in the whiteness and for an instant Adam could see the two men standing before the cottage. He tried to wish himself invisible as he saw Broichan’s back turned towards him.

‘Indeed, he is wrong. I have raised storms to splinter trees at his feet, to sink his boat, to kill his horse.’ Broichan sucked his breath in through his teeth. ‘He calls on his own god to compete with mine and the king, to appease him in the name of hospitality, bids me stay my hand. So be it. For now. Once he is no longer beneath the king’s roof tree, I shall swat him like a fly.’ He smote his thigh with the flat of his hand and Adam jumped. The man had only to move a fraction of an inch and he would see him.

A drift of mist strayed near them, barely more than a haze in the growing light. It was enough. Adam took two and then three swift steps towards the trees, holding his breath. There was a clump of whin near him. He reached it and crouched down in relief as the voices floated towards him again.

‘You must cut the cross on the reverse of the sacred stone, Gartnait. Show me your designs and I will choose. It will do no harm and it will please the king and his visitors. Later we will serve our gods and show that they are stronger when I split the mountains with the force of my anger! And little Brid here shall help me.’ He held out his hand to touch Brid’s cheek.

From his hiding place Adam could see her now. He held his breath, his skin crawling as he saw the man’s hand linger on her face with long clawed fingers. She had one of the silver plates Gartnait had engraved for his mother and was offering their visitor something from it. He accepted and Adam saw him bring it to his mouth. For a moment he stood staring at the silent tableau in front of him, then the mist drifted back and he could see no more. Without hesitating, he sprinted silently for the trees, dived amongst them, and set off as fast as he could up the hill.

The stone was touched with the first rays of the sun. Breathless as he reached it, Adam realised suddenly that he had left behind his knapsack with his precious books and binoculars. He cursed himself, but he knew it would have to wait. Brid would take care of them. Walking slowly round the stone he could feel the sunlight warm on his shoulders as for a moment he stopped to finger the intricate carvings. This was his stone. On one side were the strange symbols and figures of the ancient Picts, on the other the lattice and lace of the Celtic cross. Of Gartnait’s newly carved stone without the cross there was no trace.

Brid had hidden the knapsack under the bed coverings as soon as she had spotted it. Calmly she had scanned the interior of the hut for tell-tale signs of Adam. If there were any her uncle would see them. He had sight beyond the sight of normal men. She was praying as hard as she could that Adam had gone; not just into the mist but from their land altogether.

She knew her uncle was suspicious. He did not yet trust Gartnait and showed it by his constant visits. Gartnait was too young. The role of stone carver and keeper of the gate was a sacred one, a calling as special in its way as that of priest or bard. It was a family trust Gartnait had inherited from their father when he had died two years before. It went with the knowledge bred in the blood, of how to travel to the realms of the ever young if only one should dare. To go there was forbidden to all but the initiated, but sometimes people slipped without realising it through the gate – like Adam.

She had known the first time she saw him that Adam came from beyond the stone. His strange clothes and speech set him apart. She had watched carefully to see how he travelled the road which was supposed to bring death to all but the very few who knew the way. That he was a proper man and not a spirit or a ghost she had proved to her own satisfaction. But he was young to be an initiate. He had fascinated her from the first moment she set eyes on him. And now she had made him hers. A secret smile touched her lips briefly and then disappeared. Whatever his power was, she was going to have it.

‘Brid!’ The impatient call from outside made her jump. With another hasty glance round she stepped outside into the mist to confront the steady gaze of her uncle.

‘You look frightened, child.’ He had caught her hand and pulled her to him. ‘There is no need.’ Putting his hand under her chin he tilted her head up so he could study her face. Meeting his eyes she looked away quickly, afraid that he could see the new woman-power which was still coursing through her veins, the power which had come from the touch of a man. She could feel his eyes probing her very soul, but after a moment he looked away from her face and turned to his sister. ‘She runs wild here, Gemma.’ He spoke sternly. ‘She should be at her studies. There is much for her to learn if she is to serve in the holy places.’ He ran his hand slowly, almost seductively, down Brid’s cheek.

She took a step back out of his reach and straightened her shoulders. ‘I wish to follow the way of the word, Uncle.’ She looked at him steadily. Her fear had vanished, to be replaced by cool determination. ‘I have already learned much from Drust, the bard at Abernethy. He has agreed to teach me all he knows.’

She saw her uncle’s face suffuse with blood and instantly regretted her brave speech. ‘You presume to arrange your own life!’ he thundered at her.

She stood her ground. ‘It is my right, Uncle, if I have the gift of memory and words.’ It was her right as daughter of two ancient bardic families, one, her mother’s, of royal descent, for Broichan, her uncle, was the king’s foster father and his chief Druid.

There was a long silence. Gemma was nearby, jug in hand, in the doorway. She had been about to replenish her brother’s ale but she, like her two children, was standing, eyes fixed on his face. She held her breath.

‘Have you encouraged her in this?’ Broichan looked first at Gemma and then at Gartnait.

It was the latter who spoke first. ‘If it is her calling, Uncle, surely it is the gods who have encouraged her? Without their inspiration she would not have the talent to learn from Drust.’ Gartnait spoke with pride and dignity.

Brid bit back a triumphant smile. She wanted to hug him but she didn’t move.

Abruptly her uncle turned away. Striding to one of the logs positioned near the fire as a seat he pulled his cloak tightly around him and sat down. ‘Recite,’ he commanded.

Brid caught her breath and glanced at Gartnait. He nodded gravely. His sister’s waywardness, the stubborn furies which frightened him, the wild, in-born power, would be contained and safely harnessed by their uncle.

She moved forward. At first she was too nervous to speak, then almost miraculously her nerves vanished. Straightening her back she raised her head and began.

Her teacher had been thorough. On the long winter evenings, by the fire, he had noticed Brid in his audience, aware of her breeding and her brain, and had painstakingly repeated the long poems and stories which were their heritage until she could recite them faultlessly. Brid’s memory, as Adam had discovered, was exceedingly good. Already she had the basics of what was taught in the bardic school.

At last Broichan held up his hand. He nodded. ‘Indeed your tongue must have been touched by the goddess. That is good. You shall study further.’ He gazed at her for a moment seeing clearly her nascent power, her wild, untamed link to the Lady. He frowned for a moment, a shadow crossing his face. There was a hardness there, a stubbornness, a single-mindedness of spirit which until the moment was right would have to be carefully handled.

He turned back to his sister. ‘Your children are both talented, Gemma, which is as well. As soon as this monk, this Columcille, has gone back to the west where he came from, we shall have to chase the Jesus god from the land. They shall help us do it.’

That way she could be used.

And contained.

And her blood, as the child of kings, could sweeten and purify the earth defiled by the man sent from the Jesus god.

4

‘Adam, where have you been?’

Thomas Craig had spent the whole night searching the hill. Unshaven and exhausted, he stopped, leaning heavily on his walking stick, trying to recover his breath.

‘Father!’ Adam had been sitting on the sun-warmed rock, overwhelmed by sleepiness, too tired to face the long walk back to the manse. ‘I’m sorry.’ He scrambled to his feet, suddenly frightened. ‘I –’ He hesitated. ‘I got lost in the mist. I thought it better to stay put –’

‘You thought it better!’ Thomas’s fear and exhaustion were swiftly turning to anger. ‘You stupid, thoughtless, arrogant boy! Does it never cross your mind that I worry about you? Did it not cross your mind that I might have a sleepless night and spend the time searching for you?’ The guilt, the self-punishment with which he tormented himself endlessly, was taking more of his strength each day.

‘I did not think you would notice, Father.’ Adam took a step back, though his tone was defiant.

‘You – you didn’t think I’d notice!’

‘No, Father. You haven’t known whether I’m there or not for months.’ Somehow Adam maintained the courage to speak. ‘You haven’t noticed me at all.’

He held his father’s gaze. Overhead a buzzard mewed plaintively as it rode a thermal higher and higher over the hill. Neither of them looked up.

The silence stretched to one full minute, then another. Adam held his breath.

Abruptly, his father’s shoulders slumped. He sat down on a rock and threw his stick down at his feet. Rubbing his hands across his cheeks he sighed and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry.’ He kneaded his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right, of course. I’ve behaved unforgivably.’

Adam sat down some six feet from him. He said nothing, his eyes fixed on his father’s face. His fear and defiance had changed to a strangely adult compassion for this tortured man.

At last Thomas looked up. ‘You should come home. Get some food.’

Adam nodded. Slowly he stood up. He was stiff and tired, and suddenly he was starving.

The sound of screams to which he woke were his own. Muffling his face in the pillow he stared out of the window at the rags of ivy which danced round the frame, tapping the glass and blowing, in green and cream streamers, in the brisk south-easterly wind.

He had eaten a huge breakfast under the watchful eye of Jeannie Barron and then on her instructions made his way upstairs. He had only meant to lie down on the bed for a minute, with his book on butterflies in his hand, but overwhelmed with exhaustion and his own frustration and confusion, he had fallen instantly asleep.

The dream had been terrifying. He had been swimming underwater. At first it was fun. His limbs moved with ease and he had been staring round, eyes wide, watching the streaming green weed and the swift-moving brown trout in the dark water. Then suddenly she was there in front of him. The hag. The ugliest face he had ever seen, grotesque, toothless, her eyes bagged, surrounded by carbuncles, her nose broad and fleshy, her hair a tangled mass of swirling watersnakes. He had opened his mouth to scream, limbs flailing desperately, and swallowed water. He was drowning, sinking, and all the time she was coming closer and she was laughing. And suddenly she wasn’t the hag any more. Her face was Brid’s face and her hair was Brid’s hair and he was staring at her naked body, reaching for her breasts even as he drowned.

He sat up in bed, clutching his pillow to his chest, still fighting for air, and realised to his miserable embarrassment that he was sporting a huge erection. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed he ran to the window and heaved the heavy sash up. Sticking out his head he gasped for air. He stayed there until his breathing had calmed and he was himself again, then he turned back into the room. He wondered if his father had heard. He was not to know that downstairs his father had closed his ears to the boy’s tormented shouts, and sitting at his desk in the ground floor study had felt the hot slow tears trickle down his own cheeks.

The next day was the Sabbath. Adam had not wanted to go to the kirk. He had hung back on the path as the congregation had filed into the old stone building, wondering if he dared duck out of sight around the trees and run down through the kirkyard to the broad slow-moving river. Then Jeannie had come, Ken at her side, and somehow they had swept Adam inside with them and into the manse pew. Adam sat motionless, his eyes on his father’s snowy-white bands as Thomas stood above him in the pulpit. The boy was shaking. If his father could not see what was going on inside him, God certainly could. Adam was terrified. His skin was clammy with guilt, his hands clutched between his knees, his scalp crawling with terror as he thought about Brid and his dreams and what he had done. And slowly at the back of his mind he began to wonder if what his mother had done had been as bad and whether she like him would go to hell.

As they stood for the hymns he found his mouth was dry and his voice came out as a thin squeak. When the service was over, his face was so white he was able to slide away pleading a headache without even the observant Jeannie questioning the truth of the matter.

Thoughts of Brid filled his every waking moment. Alternate guilt, fear and obsessive longing, which at night in bed turned to dreams of lust and in equal measure self-loathing, were with him constantly. He returned to the stone again and again, but he could not find his way back to her village or to the cottage. Frustrated and impatient he found himself sobbing out loud as he raced back and forth amongst the trees. But every time the hillside was empty save for the occasional herd of deer grazing on the lower slopes, and thwarted he had to go home to a lonely, unenthusiastic supper and a cold bed where he dreamed of her again, shame-facedly scrubbing the treacherous signs from his pyjamas with his handkerchief so that Jeannie wouldn’t see when she did the washing.

Broichan sat for a long time staring down into the embers of the fire. Beside him Gemma and Brid had watched as he consulted first the streaming clouds, pink and gold from the setting sun, then the fall of the ogham sticks which he kept in a bag at his waist, and finally the deep red stone set in gold which hung from a cord around his neck. Now at last, the auguries clear, he raised his head.

‘Brid.’

The two women jumped. Gartnait was not with them. He had departed earlier with his bow to hunt.

An imperious finger decorated with a carved agate ring beckoned Brid to her feet. ‘It is decided. You will return to Craig Phádraig with me. We ride at dawn.’

‘No!’ Brid’s cry of anguish echoed above the sound of water from the burn and the crackle of the dying fire, and spiralled up towards the clouds.

Broichan rose to his feet. He was taller than her by several hand-spans and his eyes were like flint. ‘You will obey, Niece. Pack your belongings now, before we sleep.’

‘Mama –’ Brid threw an imploring look at Gemma but her mother refused to meet her eye.

‘You must do as my brother says, Brid.’ Gemma’s voice, when she spoke at last, was shaking.

‘I will not go!’ Brid’s face reflected livid colour from the dying sun. ‘You cannot make me. I have power too.’ She drew herself up to her full height and held Broichan’s gaze. ‘I can bind the storms, and I can ride the wind. I can hunt with the wildcat and run with the deer. I can catch and keep a man!’ She veiled her gaze hastily. She must not let him read her thoughts, must not let him know about Adam.

Broichan stared at her thoughtfully. There was something like a small sardonic twitch of humour in his eyes as he held out his hand and without seeming to move caught hold of her wrist. ‘So, little cat, you think you can duel with me,’ he murmured. ‘Such confidence, such foolishness.’ He seized her chin in his other hand and forced her face close to his, his eyes boring into hers. ‘Peace, little wild one. You are my servant and you will obey me.’ He reached for the translucent red stone ball in its golden setting and held it for a moment before her eyes. In seconds the eyelids began to close and she became still.

‘So.’ Broichan pushed her towards her mother. ‘Put her to bed, then pack her bag. I will take her tomorrow at first light. She shall ride in her sleep across the saddle like a bag of oats and at Craig Phádraig if she disobeys me I shall chain her by the neck like a slave.’ He turned the full force of his gaze on Gemma’s terrified face. ‘I do not allow disobedience, Sister, from any of my family. Ever.’

Adam had finally given up all hope of seeing Brid again when he met Gartnait on the mountain. He followed Brid’s brother and stood watching as he stooped and, picking up his chisel, squatted at the foot of the stone to work on a curved design. It was, Adam saw suddenly, a graceful, very realistic serpent.

‘You must go back.’ Gartnait spoke without looking up at him. Both he and Gemma could remember some of the English they had learned.

‘Why?’ Adam was suddenly tongue-tied with embarrassment.

‘It is not safe. You will be seen. Brid was careless.’

‘Why is it so wrong for me to be here with you?’

Gartnait glanced up at him. His tanned, weather-beaten face was dusty from the stone chippings, his strong hands callused but gentle on his tools. He leaned forward to blow at the work and rubbed at it with his thumb.

‘Your father serves the gods. That is how you found the way.’

Adam frowned. ‘There is only one God, Gartnait.’

The young man squinted at him and then down at his handiwork. ‘The Jesus god? His followers say there is only one god. Is it he your father serves?’

‘Jesus, yes.’ Adam was uncomfortable. Jesus and Brid – or Brid’s brother – were incompatible.

‘Yet how can you believe this when all around you the gods are there? Brid told me you and she saw the Lady in the waterfall.’

Adam blushed to the roots of his hair. Surely Brid would not have told her brother what had happened between them? ‘It is what we are taught. Only one God,’ he repeated stubbornly.

‘And yet you have been taught the way. How to walk between our world and yours.’ Gartnait leaned closer to the stone again, the tip of his tongue protruding between his teeth as he concentrated on an intricate corner, lifting the hard stone with his sharpened blade as though it were a flake of mud.

‘No one taught me to come here.’ Adam frowned. ‘I found it by myself. Though sometimes I can’t find the way – I don’t know why.’ He was feeling more and more uncomfortable.

Gartnait sat back on his heels. He stared at Adam thoughtfully. ‘That is because the way is not always open,’ he said at last. ‘It has to be taken when the time is right. The moon, the stars, the north wind. They must all be in the right place.’ He smiled gravely and changed the subject abruptly. ‘Brid likes you.’

Adam blushed again. ‘I like her.’ He turned slightly to stare back down the hillside. ‘Where is she?’ he asked as casually as he could.

‘She has gone to work with our uncle. He is teaching her.’

Adam felt a sharp pang of disappointment – and fear. ‘I was hoping to see her. How long will she be working for him?’

‘Many years. Nineteen.’ Gartnait gave another of his slow smiles. ‘But I will tell her you came.’ He looked up again. ‘A-dam, do not go to look for her. She has gone to Craig Phádraig. You cannot find her. Do not try. And she must not try to see you either. It is not allowed. Broichan would kill her if he knew she had been with you. He will not allow anyone to travel between our worlds as you have travelled. It is only for the few. And she is not for you, A-dam.’ He hesitated as though wondering whether to speak further. ‘Brid is dangerous, A-dam. I who love her, say that. Do not let her hurt you.’ He struggled to find the right words. ‘She studies the ways of the wildcat. Her claws can kill. If you see her again she will surely, in the end, bring death. Death to you and to me and to Gemma.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Adam’s bitter disappointment was edged with fear. ‘Why can’t I see her? Why can’t I travel here? What is so wrong?’ He concentrated on the one piece of Gartnait’s statement he truly understood. ‘I bet you’ve been down to the village where I live.’

Gartnait gave a sudden snort. His eyes were humorous slits of silver and he looked for a moment very like his sister. ‘I went once. Only on the hill. I do not have your courage. I did not go down.’

‘Well, can I at least go and see your mother?’ Adam fought back the misery which was threatening to overwhelm him. ‘I want my knapsack.’

Gartnait frowned, then he nodded, relenting. ‘Brid hid your things when our uncle came. I will show you. Putting down his tools he stood up, dusting his hands. He glanced at the canvas bag on Adam’s shoulder and grinned. ‘You have chocolate cake?’ he asked mischievously.

Biting back his tears, Adam smiled back and nodded. ‘And for Gemma too.’

They ate it by the fire, washed down with weak heather ale from the silver jug.

‘What is Brid studying?’ Adam asked at last. His precious knapsack lay at his feet.

‘Poetry and music; prophecy and divination and history and genealogy,’ Gartnait replied, all words, Adam realised, as Gartnait stumbled through them, miming with his hands, which he and Brid had used over their months together. ‘It takes many years of study.’

‘She must be clever.’ He knew that already.

‘She is. Very.’ Gartnait frowned again. How clever Adam could not begin to know.

‘When is she coming home?’

Gemma smiled. ‘He is so sad his friend is missing.’ She was speaking to the air above the fire.

Adam felt himself growing red once more.

‘She will not come back to you, A-dam.’ Gartnait spoke firmly. ‘She must serve her people now. She is no longer a child. And that is for the best.’

‘But she will come back to see you?’ Adam could feel the cold hard kernel of misery in his stomach growing steadily larger. He looked from one to the other desperately.

Gemma leaned forward at last and with a quick glance at Gartnait she smiled. ‘Poor A-dam. Perhaps she will come to see you. After the long days come, after Lughnasadh. I have told my brother he must bring her to see me then.’

And with that, not seeing Gartnait frown and shake his head, Adam had to be content.

At first he found he could put her out of his mind by concentrating on his school work, at least during the week. His days were spent in study, his evenings after the long drive and cycle home were spent in homework. Often now his father was there in the evenings, attempting to entertain his son with stories of the parish, with extra books bought in Perth and once or twice invitations to go, father and son, to meals with parishioners further up the glen.

Each weekend Adam would climb to the stone and each time he would be disappointed. No Gartnait. No Brid. In his loneliness he sat on the mountainside feeling the wind stirring his hair, his bird book and binoculars beside him, his sketchpad on his knee, and alone he would consume the cake he brought with him each time for Brid.

‘So, Brid, your power is growing.’ Broichan was standing behind her on the summit of a small hill overlooking the great loch out of which poured the River Ness. He had been watching her from behind an outcrop of rock, listening to the ringing incantation, watching the thrusting, bellying cloud split at her direction overhead and stream away to the north and to the south, leaving the black rocks of the hill bathed in golden sunshine.

With a start Brid lost her concentration and the clouds veered back on course. There was a sizzle of lightning, a sharp crack of thunder. Broichan laughed. ‘I still out-magic you, Niece, never forget it!’

‘But you don’t out-magic Columcille, I hear.’ Brid threw her head back and laughed. She was energised by the storm, strong, invincible. ‘He banished the beast you put in the loch to destroy him. The whole court has heard how he brought you close to death as a punishment for your treatment of one of your slavegirls and only saved you with his magic healing stone when you gave her up to him!’ It was starting to rain. She raised her face and welcomed the feeling of ice-cold needles on her skin, missing as she did so the fury of her uncle’s expression.

‘You dare to speak to me of Columcille!’

‘I dare!’ She almost spat at him. ‘You have taught me well, Uncle. My power is indeed growing!’ And soon, when I have learned enough I shall go home to A-dam. She veiled her thoughts carefully from her uncle, with a little smile. She had seen Adam in her dreams and in her scrying ball of crystal and she knew that she had him in her snare. He would wait for her, forever if need be.

‘Poor little cat. So confident. So foolish.’ Broichan’s voice was soft and velvety. Its menace brought her to her senses abruptly. ‘Don’t ever cheat on me, little Brid.’ He held out his hand to her and against her will she found herself drawn to him. ‘If you do, I shall feel obliged to give you a demonstration of my powers.’ He smiled. ‘Your brother, I think. My gatekeeper. His job is nearly done –’

‘You wouldn’t harm him!’ Brid hissed at him.

‘Indeed I would. My powers are unstoppable, as Columcille will discover when I recall the monster I put there to devour him.’ Broichan smiled again. ‘Beware, little cat. Stay obedient. Stay careful.’

He glanced up at the storm as he released her and turned away, leaving her standing where she was, her long white tunic and woollen cloak drenched to her skin. As he disappeared from sight the sky shuddered under a new bolt of lightning which hurtled past her and buried itself in the boiling, hissing waters of the loch.

The summer holidays came at last. Adam grew tanned and sturdy and once again, tentatively, he began to be friends with Mikey and Euan in the village.

He had been to kick a ball on the field behind the kirkyard with the boys after his supper and was walking back, late, up the street as the luminous dusk hung over the hills. In the distance on the west-facing side of the mountain he could see the sunlight still glowing on the dark cliffs, turning them the colour of pink damask. Where he was the shadows were dark. It was the sad time of day; the time that always filled him with melancholy. Kicking at the stones on the path he made his way reluctantly in at the gate and was brought up short by a hiss from behind him.

‘A-dam! Here! I wait for you.’ The piercing whisper made his heart leap with excitement. He stared round, confused. ‘Brid?’

‘Here. Here.’

He could see her now, crouching behind the stone wall in the shelter of a clump of rhododendron bushes. ‘I wait for you at Gartnait’s stone and you not come.’ She was taller than last year, her hair braided, her figure fuller. She was dressed in a tunic as she always was, but this one was richer, embroidered, reaching down to her ankles, and her slim arms were adorned with gold bangles. ‘Come.’ She put her finger to her lips and smiled. It was the same impish grin that he remembered, though the face was more mature, the eyes less light-hearted.

With a glance at the forbidding blank windows of the manse he ducked behind the bushes out of sight and crouched beside her in the darkness under the glossy leaves.

She pressed her lips against his cheek. ‘Hello, A-dam.’

‘Hello, you.’ He hesitated, embarrassed as he felt her hands pressing against his chest.

‘Is your father there?’ She was whispering and he could feel her hair tickling his face.

‘I don’t know.’ There were no lights on in the house that he could see.

She had found his hand. Grabbing it she pulled him to his feet and they stood together, peering out across the grass. ‘Come.’ She gave a small tug at his wrist.

The gate could be seen from his father’s study. He glanced again at the dark square windows and his courage failed him. ‘This way,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll go over the back.’

They ducked hand in hand into the shadows beneath the apple trees and ran round the house towards the regimented rows of potatoes and onions. Skirting the beds of vegetables, Adam led her to the pile of cut logs stacked against the wall, and out of sight of every window in the house save that of the empty kitchen he pulled her up to scramble over the loose stones and jump down onto the soft springy grass at the edge of the lane.

By the time they had reached the steep climb through the wood beside the burn they were both out of breath and laughing.

‘Quickly, quickly, my mother will have food.’ Brid’s hair was slipping from its braids. Far above them the stone was still in sunlight. It was strange to stand in the shadowed valley and see the distant illumination like a spotlight. Adam stopped, looking up, and he shivered. ‘I hate it when the glen gets dark before the mountain. I always want to be up there, where I can see the setting sun.’

‘We go up.’ She looked at him closely, her head to one side. ‘You are growing big, A-dam.’

‘So are you,’ he retaliated. They both smiled and suddenly she had turned and set off ahead of him at the run. He was after her in a flash and had caught up with her before she had gone a dozen yards. They were in a small mossy dell, sheltered by a stand of silver birch. Somewhere out of sight Adam could hear the trickle of water from a hidden burn.

It was she who pushed against him, nuzzling his neck with her lips, she who, fumbling with his buttons, undid his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders, she who fondled and stroked his chest till he lost his breath in the back of his throat and was galvanised at last to reach for her body through the embroidered gown. With a throaty laugh she undid the girdle at her waist and with a small wriggle let the garment fall to her feet, leaving her naked in his arms, dragging at the belt which fastened his shorts.

This time they took longer, savouring one another’s bodies, touching each other with gentle exploratory fingers which only gradually grew more urgent until at last Adam pushed her back and threw himself upon her, feeling his whole being expending itself between her lithe, compliant thighs.

When it was over they lay in sleepy contentment for a while. Then she slid from beneath him and climbing to her feet picked bits of moss and fern from her body, completely unembarrassed as she walked across the clearing to the stream which she found running through the rocks. Cupping the water in her palms she washed herself, then she turned. ‘Now you, A-dam.’

Spent, he lay back on the grass. ‘Not yet. I want to rest.’

‘Now, A-dam.’ He remembered the stern tone, but not in time. The double palm-load of icy water caught him full in the face.

He only caught up with her as they reached the stone. Laughing, he imprisoned her against it, a hand on either side of her shoulders, not letting her wriggle away. ‘A kiss for a forfeit.’

‘No, A-dam. Not here.’ Suddenly she was afraid.

It was his turn to be stern. ‘A kiss, Brid, or I won’t let you go.’

‘No, A-dam.’ She tried again to wriggle free. ‘Not here. We will be seen.’ She was angry. Her eyes narrowed and he was astonished at the sudden change in her expression.

‘Seen?’ He did not release her. ‘By Gartnait?’

‘By the god.’ She looked defiant.

‘Oh, Brid.’ Irritated, he released her and stepped back. ‘You think there are gods everywhere. I’ve told you it isn’t true. There is only one true God.’

‘I know.’ Stepping away from the stone she dusted herself off furiously. ‘So you say. The Jesus god.’ The Jesus god was powerful. His servant Columcille had several times now outwitted Broichan, to Broichan’s fury. But then Broichan’s strength had rallied … She put her uncle hastily out of her mind. There must be no possibility of him probing her thoughts and discovering Adam there. Broichan had brought her south himself, to visit her mother whilst he went on to Abernethy. There would be several long blissful days before he returned, days she intended to spend with Adam.

‘Jesus won’t care if we kiss here, anyway. Crosses are idolatrous.’ Adam had shoved his hands into his pockets. His face was burning suddenly. He was remembering the kirk and his father’s grey haggard face above him in the pulpit, the burning eyes boring down into his. He shivered as Brid reached for his hand.

The bothy was deserted. Brid did not seem worried by Gemma’s absence. Quite the contrary, as it gave them more time together. Sitting down by the fire Adam waited while she brought him some heather ale, then he pulled her down beside him. ‘So, tell me about your studies.’

She shook her head. ‘That is not allowed.’

‘Why?’ He stared at her wide-eyed.

‘Because it is secret. I am not permitted to say.’

‘That’s silly.’ He leaned forward and picking up a stick poked the fire with it. A tongue of flame shot from between the peats. Standing on a stone beside it was one of Gemma’s iron cooking pots. The familiar succulent smell of venison stew seeped from beneath the lid. ‘Where is your mother?’ He changed the subject abruptly.

Brid shrugged. ‘She will come.’ She glanced over her shoulder and frowned. ‘She and Gartnait are near.’

Following her gaze Adam stared into the old pine trees. The red-barked trunks caught the evening light and glowed with a warm intensity, but behind them the shadows were cool and dark. He could see nothing in the heart of the wood.

Brid had risen to her feet. She was staring anxiously, her hands clasping and unclasping on the folds of her skirt. ‘Something is wrong.’

Adam was watching her, catching something of her anxiety. ‘Should we hide?’

She shook her head, concentrating, and he fell silent.

‘My uncle,’ she whispered suddenly. ‘He is here in my head. There is blood! Someone is hurt. Gartnait!’ She had gone very white.

He did not ask her how she knew. Nervously he moved behind her. ‘What do we do?’ he asked under his breath.

‘Wait.’ She raised her hand, gesturing him back, then she spun to face him.

‘This way!’ she cried. She was already running towards the trees.

They found Gartnait lying beneath one of the old pines, his head cradled on his mother’s lap. His face was like chalk and his eyes were closed. The shoulder of his tunic was soaked in blood.

Gemma looked up. ‘Brid?’ The one word was a desperate plea.

Brid was already on her knees by her brother, her hands flying over his body, barely touching him as though feeling for his wounds.

‘How is he?’ Adam knelt beside her. He smiled uncertainly at Gemma and shyly reached over to pat her hand.

‘A-dam. Good boy.’ Gemma’s face was tired, but she managed to return the smile.

‘What happened?’

She shook her head. ‘The tree break. Gartnait should know not to be there.’ She gestured at the fallen branch with its rotten shredded broken end and near it the axe Gartnait must have been wielding when he was hit.

Brid had pulled away the blood-soaked fabric of the shirt. ‘It was Broichan. He has done this to punish me.’ She was tight-lipped.

‘Broichan?’ Gemma stared at her, shocked.

Brid looked up, her face hard. ‘Broichan. Enough. I will make Gartnait better. He is hurting.’ She glanced up at Adam. ‘I will make my brother sleep while we clean the wound.’

He did not stop to ask her how. ‘Shall I fetch some water?’

She nodded. ‘Good. And moss. From the wood box under the lamp.’

‘Moss?’ He hesitated at the word but she was already cutting away her brother’s shirt with the small knife she carried in her girdle.

Adam filled a leather bucket with cold water from the burn and found the moss as she had predicted in a small chest in the hut below a bronze candlestick. Also in the box were some small pots of ointment. He sniffed them cautiously and decided to take them all.

Brid nodded approval when he put his finds beside her. Gartnait was lying before her quietly, his face relaxed, his eyes closed. Adam watched as with neat deft fingers Brid swabbed the deep bruised cut she had exposed over Gartnait’s collar bone and applied one of the ointments he had produced. Satisfied that it was properly cleansed and sealed she packed the wound with moss and while Adam held it in place deftly bandaged it with her own girdle.

She glanced up at Adam and gave a quick, worried smile of approval. ‘You make good healer.’

He smiled. ‘I want to be a doctor when I grow up.’

‘Doctor?’

‘Healer.’

She nodded. ‘Good. Now, Gartnait must come back.’ She put her palm flat over the unconscious young man’s forehead and sat quietly, her eyes closed.

Adam watched, intrigued. ‘What are you doing?’ he whispered at last.

She glanced up, surprised. ‘I put him to sleep so he could go away from the pain. He waited while we make it better. Now I go and tell him he can come back. The pain is not so bad, and it is better he come to home and we make him medicine to stop the hot time coming.’

‘The fever, we call it,’ Adam corrected her. He was impressed. He could see the young man’s eyelids fluttering beneath Brid’s commanding hand. It seemed to Adam only a matter of seconds before Gartnait was sitting up, staring round him groggily, and not long after that that they were making their way back towards the hut, Brid and Adam supporting him, one bent beneath each shoulder, Gemma hurrying ahead to stir up the fire and set a pot of water over the flames to heat.

Brid had, it seemed, a store of medicaments ready for just such an occasion. Adam watched as she brought a woven bag out of the hut and produced an array of small packages. Inside were numerous substances, most of which he guessed had dried herbs of various kinds.

A handful of this and a pinch of that were thrown into the steaming water. A bitter, strong smell began to flavour the air. Gartnait caught Adam’s eye and smiled wryly. ‘Will not taste like chocolate cake.’

Adam laughed. If the young man’s sense of humour had returned he was starting to mend, in spite of the startling pallor of his face and the purple bruise which was beginning to spread down his cheekbone.

To Adam’s relief the venison stew was placed back on the fire beside Brid’s medicine and, thanks to Gartnait’s sudden healthy hunger, it was not long before they were all eating bowls of it, sopped up with chunks of coarse bread torn from the loaf.

‘Brid?’ Only once her son was settled, his arm in a rough linen sling across his chest, did Gemma at last turn to her daughter. ‘What has Broichan to do with this business?’ Her eyes were sharp on her daughter’s face.

Brid scowled. ‘He threatened to hurt Gartnait.’

‘Why?’

‘He does not trust me. My power is too strong.’

Gemma stared at her for a moment, then she shook her head. ‘That is no answer, daughter.’

‘No.’ Brid stuck out her chin. ‘I have the power from you and from my father –’

‘Your father is dead!’ Gemma’s voice was hard. ‘His power was not strong enough, Brid. He was killed by the enemies of our people when he thought he was invincible. Nothing magic. A simple sword thrust in the dark from a raider, that was all it took to kill him.’ She could not hide her scorn as she leaned forward and put her hand on Gartnait’s forehead. ‘You will endanger us all by mocking Broichan. My brother is the most powerful Druid in the land and you would do well not to forget it. You are being conceited and foolish in challenging him. And you are selfish. You put this boy’s life at risk when you bring him here to our forbidden places.’

Adam had been following the conversation with great difficulty but as they all suddenly stared at him he looked away, embarrassed and frightened.

‘A-dam has power of his own!’ Brid retorted firmly. ‘He is a traveller between the worlds and he is a healer –’

‘He is not of our world, Brid.’ Gemma’s voice was very firm. ‘We will give him food, then he must go. Before Broichan returns. And you must appease your uncle. You have seen the strength of his magic –’

‘Mine is as strong –’

‘Not strong enough!’

Adam had never seen Gemma angry before. Sitting, hugging his knees by the fire, he watched uncertainly as the two women confronted each other, their antagonism mounting. The moment of silence was intense.

And in the silence no one saw the dark shadow of Broichan materialise out of the night. Their visitor arrived so silently and so swiftly there was no possibility of escape. He was standing over them before any of them realised it and Adam could only look up and meet the furious, pale-blue eyes of Brid’s uncle a few feet from him. His stomach knotted into a cold lump, and he felt the total paralysis of terror settle over him.

No one said anything for several seconds, then at last Gartnait put down his mug of ale and hauled himself painfully to his feet.

‘Greetings to you, my uncle,’ he said respectfully. Adam understood that much. What followed was wholly incomprehensible but Adam could follow the meaning of the gestures as clearly as though he understood every word. They did not bode well for him or for Brid.

Brid and Gemma were both very pale. They sat with downcast eyes and for all her earlier defiance, Adam could see that Brid’s hands, still clutched around her beautifully decorated goblet, were shaking visibly. The man’s voice grew louder. He appeared to be working himself into a furious rage.

Gartnait raised his chin. The young man’s meekness vanished in a torrent of angry words. His eyes, dark and flashing, met those of his uncle and he was gesturing first at Brid and then at Adam.

The shouting match ended with such suddenness that the silence that succeeded it was shocking in its intensity. Terrified, Adam glanced from one to the other. Brid and her mother were white-faced. Gartnait beneath his defiance also looked afraid. Adam’s blood seemed to have turned to ice. For a moment they all remained motionless, then Broichan stepped forward. For a long moment he stood over Adam, his eyes seeming to probe deep inside the boy’s head. Adam shrank back. He could feel the strength of the man’s mind inside his brain. It hurt him physically like a red-hot iron, and then suddenly it was over. Broichan spat on the ground in front of him. Then he stooped and seized Brid’s wrist, hauling her to her feet. Her goblet fell from her hand. With a little cry she tried to pull back but he gripped her more tightly and dragged her away from the fire.

Adam looked from Gemma to Gartnait and back. Neither had moved a muscle. There were tears in Gemma’s eyes.

‘What is happening?’ he cried suddenly. ‘Do something. Don’t let him take her.’

Gartnait shook his head. He gestured at Adam sharply to stay where he was. ‘He has the right.’

‘He doesn’t. What’s he going to do?’ Adam scrambled up, bewildered.

‘He takes her back to Craig Phádraig.’ Gartnait shook his head. ‘It is her destiny. He will not let her come back.’

‘But he can’t do that!’ Adam was frantic. ‘You can’t just let him take her.’

‘I can’t stop him, A-dam,’ Gartnait said quietly. ‘It is her chosen life. And you must go. Now. You must not come back to the land beyond the north wind. Not ever.’

‘What do you mean? Why not? What have I done? What’s wrong with me?’ Bewildered, the boy could feel tears in his own eyes.

‘You live in another place, A-dam. The place beyond the stone. Beyond the mist.’ Gartnait’s gaze was on the retreating forms of Brid and Broichan. ‘No one is supposed to go there or come from there. My uncle told me about it so that I could carve the stone. Brid followed me. She learned the way from me. She will learn about it in her studies, but it is secret. It is a secret which no man may tell. My uncle believes that we told you the way. I told him that your father is a powerful priest on your side of the stone, and that you learned the way from him, but he is still angry.’

‘My father didn’t teach me the way here. I found it myself.’ Adam was confused. ‘Or Brid shows me. What is so special? I don’t understand. Why should a track through the wood be so secret?’

Gartnait frowned. ‘It leads to the back of the north wind, where no man may go. Not Broichan himself, not Brid, not even me.’ He sighed. ‘I told you to beware my sister, A-dam. She is a daughter of the fire and her power will kill. Forget her, A-dam. She is not part of your destiny. Come, my young friend. I will walk with you.’

Adam shook his head, confused and miserable. ‘No, you stay here. You shouldn’t walk after your accident. And besides, you should stay with your mother –’ He looked at Gemma for a moment.

She shook her head. ‘Go, A-dam. You bring trouble for us, my son.’ She gave a small sad smile and turning away, she disappeared inside the cottage.

Distressed, Adam hesitated. ‘May I come back?’ His face was burning with shame.

By the fire, Gartnait shook his head sadly as he turned back to the flames. He hoped Adam would never realise how close he had come to death that afternoon; how only his eloquence, courage and the fact that he had convinced Broichan of the power of Adam’s father had saved the boy from the razor-sharp blade which, hidden in the older man’s sleeve, had been destined for Adam’s throat.

‘Gemma?’ Adam’s voice was husky with misery. He had a sudden vision of his own mother crying and fighting with his father. Was he always destined to cause trouble for the people he loved?

She reappeared in the doorway and she held out her arms to him. He ran to her and she hugged him and kissed his cheek. ‘No, A-dam. Never come back.’ She softened the words with a gentle touch on his face, then she turned away once more and ducked inside.

5

A few days later, to his surprise and delight, Adam found his old school friend, Robbie Andrews, waiting for him by the gate to the manse. The boy’s face split into a huge grin as he punched Adam on the shoulder. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been hanging around all afternoon.’

Adam shook his head. ‘I’ve been up on the hill.’ Mooching aimlessly around the stone. To no avail. There was no sign of Gartnait or Gemma or the cottage. He grinned back at Robbie, snapping out of his depression. Robbie, the son of the factor on the Glen Ross estate, had once been his best friend, but when Robbie’s mother had died Robbie had gone to boarding school and stayed with his grandparents in Edinburgh. Robbie had, he now discovered, come to spend the summer with his father up at the factor’s house on the estate.

‘I’ve got a message for you.’ Robbie glanced round conspiratorially. He was a tall thin boy with startling red hair, and at seventeen was a few months older than Adam. ‘Come over here.’ He ducked down out of sight of the manse’s study window and led Adam back down the street and towards the river. Only when they were in the wood by the burn did he stop and find them a fallen tree trunk to sit on, out of reach of the spray from the waterfall. He reached into his pocket and produced a crumpled envelope. ‘Here. It’s from your mother.’

Adam stared at him. His mouth dropped open and he found he was having to fight a sudden urge to cry. It was two years, almost exactly, since his mother had left home and he had long ago given up hope of hearing from her ever again.

He put his hand out for the envelope and sat staring at it. It was her writing all right. Every thought of Brid and Gartnait fled from his brain as he turned it over and over in his hands.

‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Robbie was eager to know what it said.

Adam shook his head. He shoved it into his pocket and leaning forward, elbows on knees, picked up a moss-covered stone to throw towards the burn.

‘She came to see my grandmother,’ Robbie prompted him. ‘She said she had written to you and you never bothered to answer. She said she understood that you must be very angry with her.’

‘She never wrote.’ Adam’s voice was strangled. ‘Not once.’

Robbie frowned. ‘She said she did.’

There was a long silence. Adam was struggling to control his tears. When he managed to speak at last it was in a croak. ‘How was she?’

‘Good. She was looking very pretty.’

‘Pretty?’ Adam picked up on the word sharply.

Robbie nodded. ‘She had a blue dress. And pearls round her neck. And her hair was kind of long and curly. Not like it used to be here.’

Adam bit his lip. The description did not fit the repressed, meek minister’s wife who had been his mother. Perhaps his father was right. She had become a whore.

Miserably he stared at the narrow tumbling glitter of the water in front of him. He said nothing.

‘Are you still planning to be a doctor?’ Robbie threw his own stone at the water, angling it so it skittered over the rocks and disappeared over the edge into the whirling brown pools.

Adam nodded bleakly.

‘Are you going to Aberdeen medical school or Edinburgh next year? Tell your father you want to go to Edinburgh. We could have some wizard fun together. It’s great there, Adam. I’m going to read Classics.’ The boy’s face had lit up with enthusiasm. ‘And I’m going to fly. They all say war is coming. If it does I want to be in the RAF.’

Adam shook his head. Talk at the Academy was all of war too. ‘Then I hope they see you coming. You can’t even ride a bike, if I remember, without pranging it!’

‘That was a while ago, Adam. I can drive a car now! Grandfather taught me. He’s got a Morris Cowley. And I’ve a licence to ride a motorbike. I can take you on the back!’ His enthusiasm was beginning to cheer Adam up.

‘What does your father say about all this?’ Adam had always rather liked the factor, who used to take him and Robbie on bird-watching trips up in the hills when they were too young to go on their own.

‘Och, he’s fine about it. He doesn’t care what we do.’ He sounded just a little too casual. ‘What about you, Adam? What about the minister?’

Adam grimaced. ‘I can’t wait to get my Highers and go.’ It was true, he realised suddenly. Without Brid and her family, what had he to stay for?

It was nearly dark when Adam sat on the window seat of his attic room and took his mother’s letter out of his pocket. He turned the envelope over several times and looked down at it. It had the one word Adam written on it. The sight of his mother’s handwriting made him feel strange. First he thought he might cry; then he felt angry. He crumpled it up and threw it in his waste paper basket, overwhelmed by a feeling of lost betrayal, then as suddenly he dived on it and tore it open.

My darling Adam,

I have written to you several times before, but I don’t know if you ever got my letters. It may be your father didn’t pass them on.

Please try and understand. I could not live with your father any more. Why need not concern you now, only believe me, I had no choice. I had to come away. I know how hurt and angry you must be with me. Please, let me explain. Your father won’t let you come and see me now, but when you leave school, if you would like to, please come then. I love you so much and I miss you dreadfully. Your loving Mother.

Adam put down the letter. His eyes were full of tears. No, of course his father had not given him her letters. He looked at the piece of paper in his hand again. She did not say if she was alone or what she was doing. There was just an address, in Edinburgh, and those few impassioned words.

The light was on in his father’s study. Pushing open the door without knocking Adam thrust the letter across the desk. ‘Is it true? Did she write to me?’

Thomas stared at the letter. There was no anger in his face when he looked up at Adam, only a terrible haggard sorrow.

‘And what was the sin you told me she had committed?’ Adam wasn’t sure where the courage had come from to allow him to speak to his father in this way.

Thomas’s face darkened. ‘That is not your business, boy.’

‘Was it another man? Wee Mikey said she ran away with a Frenchman.’ The question he had wanted to ask for so long burst out of him. ‘Did she? Weren’t we good enough for her?’ Tears were pouring suddenly down his face.

His father stared at him without expression for several seconds, then at last he shook his head. ‘I do not know, Adam, and I don’t want to.’ And that was all he would say.

The stone was silver in the moonlight, the old symbols showing clearly, their deep incisions darkened by lichen, their design as clear as the day they were cut. Adam stood looking at them miserably. The serpent, the crescent and the broken rod, and there, at the base, the mirror and the comb. He frowned. Gartnait had never copied the mirror on his stone. The designs had been finished last time he had seen him but that small corner of the stone was empty. He bent and touched the outline with his fingers. The mirror on his mother’s dressing table, with her brush and comb, had been burned with all her other things on his father’s bonfire. He had found the blackened ivory and splintered glass next to some charred pieces of brown fabric which had once been his mother’s best dress.

He would see her again. Whatever she had done, she was still his mother. She wouldn’t have gone if his father hadn’t driven her away. Even if she had found someone else – his mind slid sideways around the thought, not able to confront it – she still loved him, her letter had said as much. And she missed him. His mind made up, he found himself smiling in the moonlight. He would go to Edinburgh next year, to study medicine as planned, and he would go and see his mother. And in the meantime he would write to her and tell her his news.

Chastened and obedient, Brid learned the names of the thirty-three kings. She learned the rituals of fire and water. She learned divination from the flight of birds, from the clouds and the stars, from the trees and the falling of the fortune sticks. She learned spells and incantations and healing. She began to learn the nature of the gods and goddesses and how to intercede with them and about the sprinkling of the blood; she learned about the soul which dwells within the body but which can fly free as a bird, to travel, to learn, and to hide and she learned how she too by dint of study and dreams and the use of sacred smoke could enter the dream and travel through the layers of time to the worlds beyond the world.

Her special study was the wildcat. She left the school as did the other women from time to time, completely alone, and followed the animals’ secret trails into the hills. She studied their hunting and their killing. She studied their sleeping and their lazy washing on a hidden sunlit ledge amongst the rocks and cliffs. She studied their meeting and mating and the secret places where the she-cats raised their mewling kittens. She learned how to read the mind of the cat and then at last she began to walk in the paw prints of the creature, feeling its skin as her skin, tearing her prey, eating the sweet raw meat of hare or vole or game and licking the rich blood from her paws.

And back at the school in the evenings sometimes she spied on Adam in her dreams. Secretly she remembered the strength of his arms, the passion of his kiss, the soft boy’s cheek above the newly rough man’s whiskers, the deep thrust of his manhood, and she slipped from her meditation out into the plane where there is no time or place and all things are one, and she crept close to him to touch his lips with her own as he slept.

It was a few days after Adam took his final exam the following summer that he saw Brid again. She was waiting for him, as she had once before, near his house, and she dived on him as he climbed off his bicycle after a visit to Robbie to celebrate the start of the holidays.

‘A-dam! A-dam! Where have you been? I have come for three days!’ She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth, then she pushed him away and punched him gently in the stomach. ‘You forget Brid?’

‘No.’ Recovering from the shock of seeing her, his face broadened into a smile. ‘No, I never forget Brid. How did you get back? What about your uncle?’

She smiled, and put her finger to her lips. ‘I have persuaded him to be nice. I will tell you later.’ She glanced round. ‘Is it safe for me here?’ She looked nervously up the street. She would never tell him the fear she had felt when she saw her first car, a black Alvis belonging to James Ferguson from Birnam, roaring along the narrow road leaving a trail of blue smoke.

Adam followed her gaze and then glanced back at the house. Behind him the manse would be empty. Jeannie Barron would have gone on the bus into Perth as she usually did on a Wednesday and his father would be visiting the cottage hospital. He nodded. ‘No one will see us.’ He smiled at her, still holding her hand. ‘I tell you what, shall I fetch some cake?’

‘Chocolate cake?’ She looked at him archly.

‘Maybe.’

She followed him nervously around the back of the house and even more hesitantly in at the back door.

‘It’s all right. There’s no one here.’

He beckoned up the passage towards the kitchen.

‘It’s big. Like a castle.’ She tiptoed over the flags in awe.

‘No it’s not.’ He flung open the kitchen door and stopped in surprise. Jeannie Barron was standing at the table, up to her elbows in flour, rolling pastry.

It was too late to turn back. She had looked up and seen him. ‘Well, young man. Did you have a good visit with Robbie? Did you remember to tell him to say hello from me to his grandmother –’ She broke off abruptly as she saw Brid hovering behind him. ‘So, who is this?’

Adam watched her eyes move quickly up and down, taking in Brid’s long hair, her embroidered tunic, her soft leather skirt and her laced sandals. Her frown was so quickly hidden he wondered if he had imagined it.

‘So, lassie, come in and let’s be seeing you.’

Brid hesitated and Adam, turning, took her hand with a reassuring smile. ‘This is Brid. Brid, this is Jeannie who makes chocolate cakes.’

Brid’s face lit into a smile. ‘I like chocolate cake.’

Jeannie nodded. ‘I thought he couldn’t have been eating them all by himself. Well, if you look in the pantry you’ll find a new one I made specially for him.’ She turned back to her dough. ‘And what kind of a name is Brid, if I may ask?’ Like Adam she had pronounced it Breed.

‘It’s short for Bridget,’ Adam put in hastily. ‘Sort of a nickname.’

‘I see. And where do you come from then, lass? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.’

‘She lives in a village the other side of Ben Dearg,’ Adam answered for her again. ‘Her brother is the stone mason there.’

‘I see. And you’ve no tongue in your head?’ Once more the quick shrewd glance. Jeannie Barron had summed Brid up at once. A pretty tinker child, or perhaps foreign. More likely the latter in view of her silence. And besotted with young Adam, if she were any judge.

Adam had emerged from the pantry with the plate.

‘Greaseproof is over there.’ The floury hand waved towards the dresser. ‘Then get you both from under my feet, if you please. I’m here today so I can have Friday off and stay with my sister the whole weekend, and I’ve a lot to do before I’m away.’

Outside Brid rounded on him. ‘I thought you said it would be safe. That is not your mother?’

‘No. I told you. My mother’s gone away.’ Adam was fairly sure Jeannie would not mention the visit to his father.

‘So, it is the woman who looks after the priest?’

He frowned. ‘I wish you wouldn’t call him a priest. It sounds so papist. I told you. He’s a minister.’

‘Sorry, A-dam.’ She looked contrite. ‘She makes nice cake.’ Then, as she did so often she changed the subject, abruptly and without a second thought, dismissing Jeannie as no longer worthy of interest. ‘Come. We go find Gartnait.’

They did, but not before she had pounced on Adam in the shelter of the lonely screed valley on the north side of the waterfall and laughingly begun to pull off all his clothes.

‘A-dam! You are tall and big!’ Her glance was deliberately provocative. She stood in front of him and slipped her tunic up over her naked breasts. ‘Me too. I am big now.’

‘Indeed you are.’ He smiled. In the twelve months since he had last seen her, her breasts and hips had rounded and her slim child’s legs had become more shapely.

They made love again and again and then after a respectful handful of cake had been given to the Lady in the waterfall they swam under the icy cascade. Afterwards they found a sheltered patch of sunlight where the wind couldn’t chill them, and lay on the flat rocks to dry.

‘I have studied the omens.’ Brid was staring up at the sky. ‘You and I will be together forever. I read the entrails of a doe before I ate her flesh as a cat. She told me so.’

‘Brid!’ Adam sat up. ‘You are joking? That’s disgusting!’

‘No.’ She smiled at him and pushed him back, her fingers playfully clawed as she raked them gently over his chest. ‘I not joke.’

He stared up into her eyes and for an instant he was appalled by what he saw there. ‘Brid –’

‘Quiet, A-dam.’ Her lips came down on his, and for a while he was silent, distracted from his thoughts by her hands.

When she at last lay back next to him, sated, he turned a sleepy head towards her. ‘I thought you said you weren’t allowed to talk about your studies?’

‘I’m not.’ She looked defiant.

‘So you made all that stuff up? About the entrails?’

‘I didn’t make it up.’ She sat up, her legs crossed, and looked down at him. ‘Do you want me to show you?’

He looked at her and suddenly he was afraid again. The hardness he sometimes saw in her eyes was at such variance with her passion. He was confused. ‘No!’ He spoke sharply. ‘It didn’t really say you and I will be together forever?’

‘It did.’ She smiled, and he saw the small pink tip of her tongue flick across her lips. ‘You and I make love together forever.’

He frowned. He had not thought about Brid and the future. The future contained university and medicine and a shining array of new opportunities. He wasn’t at all certain yet how Brid fitted in, if at all. He shifted uncomfortably, watching her through narrowed eyes as she sat beside him, silhouetted against the brightness of the sky.

I told you to beware my sister, A-dam. She is a daughter of the fire and her power will kill. Forget her, A-dam. She is not part of your destiny.

Gartnait’s words echoed in his head suddenly, and he shivered. ‘You haven’t told me yet why your uncle let you come back.’

‘He has come to visit my brother and to see the stone. It is nearly finished.’

Adam sat up. ‘You mean he’s here too?’

‘No. Today he rides to visit my other uncle, my father’s brother …’ She worked out the relationship on her fingers. ‘Then he comes back from Abernethy in two, three days. And then I am staying here with Gemma until the snow comes. We can see each other all the time!’

She leaned over him and kissed him on the lips again.

Adam frowned. A shadow had drifted across the sun. ‘Not all the time, Brid.’ He raised himself onto one elbow. ‘You remember I am going to be a doctor? I am going away to university in October.’

‘To university? What is university?’ She sat up and scowled.

‘It’s a place you go to study. Like school, but more difficult.’ His voice rose with enthusiasm. ‘Like you do with your uncle.’

‘But I see you after you finish study. In the evening.’ Her eyes were very intense, holding his.

He felt uncomfortable. ‘No, Brid. We can’t do that,’ he said gently. ‘I’m going to Edinburgh. It’s a long way from here. I shall be staying there.’

‘But you will come back? To see your father? Like I come back to see my mother and Gartnait.’

He looked away. The sun reflecting on the water made him screw up his eyes against the glare. ‘Yes. I’ll come back.’

He wondered if that was a lie. He never wanted to come back to the manse. Not if he could help it. But what if that meant he would never see Brid again? He looked back at her and gave her a reassuring smile. ‘We’ve plenty of time, Brid. I don’t go for weeks and weeks and weeks.’ It still seemed like forever. Taking her hand he pulled her sharply so she tumbled forward into his arms. ‘Let’s make the most of now, shall we?’ The future could take care of itself.

They never got as far as the stone, that day or the next. Adam went back to the manse and collected his camping things. He knew Jeannie probably suspected that he would not be sleeping in his small tent alone, but she said nothing, giving him a huge bag of food to keep him going while he watched the birds. Loaded with tent and sleeping bag and groundsheet, a Primus stove, saucepan, food, bird book and binoculars, he could hardly walk as he set off once more towards the hill. The weight did not matter. Brid was waiting for him, and anyway they were not going far.

They camped only a hundred yards from the falls. There, to his intense embarrassment, she gave him an intricately worked silver pendant on a chain, hanging it herself around his neck. ‘For you, A-dam. Forever.’

‘Brid! Men don’t wear things like this!’ He flinched uncomfortably as it nestled against his chest.

She laughed. ‘Men in my world wear this with pride, A-dam. It is a love token.’ She pulled the edges of his collar across to hide it and kissed him firmly on the lips. Before very long he had forgotten it was there.

Two evenings later, with the dark blue velvet of the sky sprinkled with pale stars, Gartnait found them.

‘How long have you been here?’ He looked furious.

‘Not long.’ Brid glared at him.

‘I look for you everywhere. Everywhere!’ he repeated. ‘Broichan is at our mother’s house. He is angry!’ The emphasis he placed on the last word spoke volumes.

‘I have a holiday.’ Brid looked mutinous.

‘Holiday?’ Gartnait repeated the word puzzled. Then without waiting for elucidation he grabbed her wrist and pulled her to her feet. ‘You have been here with A-dam?’ His face betrayed a succession of emotions: anger; fear; suspicion. ‘Brid, you have stayed here? Here? On the other side?’

Brid’s chin rose, if anything, a little higher. But there was a touch of colour in her cheeks. ‘I like it here. I saw A-dam’s village; I saw his house,’ she said defiantly.

‘And what will you say to our uncle?’

‘I will say nothing. I came to see our mother.’

Adam had not dared meet Gartnait’s eye. He knew what they had done was wrong. It was his fault. He was the man. He should have said no. He should have sent her away. Only they both knew that was impossible. Even now, as he looked at Brid and saw the heightened colour in her cheeks, the silky sheen of her hair, still dishevelled from their love-making in the tent only minutes before Gartnait had appeared, and the line of her long slim tanned thigh beneath her skirt, he could feel his desire running rampant through his veins. Clenching his fists he looked away from her. ‘Can’t you say you couldn’t find her?’ he said to Gartnait.

‘You want me to tell my uncle lies?’ Gartnait looked at him disparagingly.

‘Not lies.’ It was Adam’s turn to blush. ‘Just say you looked everywhere.’

‘He knows I looked everywhere,’ Gartnait replied bitterly. ‘He knows there was nowhere else to look.’

‘He must not know you have come here,’ Brid put in anxiously.

‘Nor you, little sister.’ Gartnait shook his head. ‘Or he will kill us both.’

There was a moment of silence. Adam felt the small hairs stand up suddenly on the back of his neck.

Brid’s huge grey eyes were fixed on her brother’s. It was as if they had forgotten he was there.

Adam swallowed hard. ‘Look, I know he’ll be angry, but I’ll explain …’ His voice tailed away. He was remembering his previous encounters with Broichan.

Brid was very pale. ‘A-dam. You stay here in your tent. I will go and see my uncle. Then I will come back.’ She sounded very confident.

‘But I should come with you.’

‘No, you know that is not possible. Better he does not know I have ever seen you again, my A-dam.’ Her voice softened suddenly as she saw his stricken face and she darted over to drop a kiss on his forehead. ‘I will come back soon. You see –’ she broke off abruptly and he saw her gaze pass to the edge of the clearing.

Adam craned round in sudden terror and saw to his intense relief a familiar face staring at them over the rim of the bank. His friend, Robbie, was scrambling towards them, grinning broadly, when he stopped abruptly, his whole expression frozen into fear. Adam looked round and saw that Gartnait had drawn the knife he wore habitually at his belt.

‘Gartnait!’ he cried, alarmed. ‘He is my friend. It’s all right.’ The whole afternoon was turning into a hideous nightmare. ‘Put it away. He’s my friend.’

Reluctantly Gartnait sheathed the knife, but his face remained sullen and hostile as Robbie, after a moment’s hesitation, came forward.

‘Adam, you old devil, I didn’t know you were going to camp.’ He recognised the tent. He had one just like it and in the past the two boys had often camped side by side. He was staring first at Brid and then at Gartnait. ‘Who are your friends?’

Adam frowned, reluctant to introduce them. Gartnait and Brid were a part of his own private world, his secret world, which had nothing to do with home. He repeated their names without enthusiasm. ‘They were just going,’ he added as the two young men bowed at one another stiffly.

Brid reached up and unself-consciously kissed Adam on the cheek. ‘I will see you soon.’ She smiled at him and touched his face with her hand. For a fraction of a second she clawed her fingers and he thought he heard a gentle purr. Then she and Gartnait had gone.

Robbie whistled. ‘Who on earth were they?’ He sat down next to Adam and stared at him hard. ‘They’re not from round here. What weird clothes!’

Adam was shivering. Not for the first time he realised that something about Brid frightened him intensely. ‘I met them over the other side of the hill,’ he said slowly. ‘Gartnait is a stone carver. He travels around.’

‘And the beautiful young lady?’ Robbie’s eyes were alight with intrigue.

Adam forced himself to smile. ‘She’s his sister.’

Robbie punched him on the shoulder. ‘You randy old devil! How did you manage to get yourself a girlfriend like that!’

Adam flushed painfully and he felt a shock of annoyance go through him as well as fear. In spite of himself he glanced round. But they were alone in the centre of the huge bowl of the surrounding hills. ‘Don’t be daft. She’s no one. Just someone I met.’ Even as he said it he felt he was betraying her, but Brid and Gartnait and Robbie were worlds apart and he intended to keep them that way. He felt the cold weight of silver on his chest suddenly and shrugged the open neck of his shirt closed, surreptitiously fastening the button. He had no intention of letting Robbie see the pendant round his neck. As soon as he was alone he would remove it.

He stayed alone in the tent that night, but she did not return. Nor the next, and on the Saturday Adam packed up his gear and took it back to the manse.

With something like relief he put her out of his mind. Three times the following week he cycled over to Robbie’s and together they planned what they would do when they got to Edinburgh. It was finally beginning to dawn on Adam that he was actually leaving, and his thoughts turned to Brid less and less often, visiting him only at night in his dreams. Her silver charm was hidden in a box in the bottom of one of his drawers.

His results arrived; his grades were excellent and his place at medical school was confirmed. Numb with shock and excitement he received the news in his father’s study and stood looking down at the letter in his hand.

‘Congratulations, Adam.’ Thomas smiled at him. ‘I am very proud of you.’

Adam was speechless for a moment. He read the letter again. There was no doubt; there it was in black and white.

‘A great step,’ his father went on. ‘You’ll make a fine doctor one day, son.’

‘Thank you, Father.’ At last Adam found his tongue.

In half an hour it hit him with dizzying force. He was on his way. He was going to the city. He was leaving the manse forever. He did not intend to come back, even in the vacations. He was going to be a doctor.

This time he did not give Brid a second’s thought.

Broichan was waiting when Brid returned to the bothy with Gartnait, seated in front of the fire. There was no sign of Gemma.

‘So, you have been trespassing beyond our world. You have lied and cheated and broken your vows!’

‘No!’ Brid faced him, her cheeks flaming. ‘I have betrayed no one!’

‘You have betrayed me. And you have betrayed your gods.’ Broichan had not raised his voice. ‘On your horse. We leave now for the north.’

‘But I’m staying here –’

‘You are staying nowhere!’ Broichan stood up, towering over her. ‘You have betrayed your brother and your mother. You have betrayed the blood that runs in your veins. You have betrayed your calling –’

‘You have no proof of any of this! You are guessing –’

‘I have proof enough. I have watched you in the fire and in the water. I have seen you lying like a drab with the boy son of the Jesus priest.’ He moved towards her and Brid flinched backwards. ‘Collect your bags and come now, or I shall tie you like a slave and drag you behind my horse!’

She had no choice. Trembling, Brid collected her belongings, kissed Gemma, who had been waiting silent and afraid inside the bothy, and climbed onto her pony. Somehow she managed to keep her head high, the colour still strong in her cheeks, as Broichan led the way up onto the track where his servants and his escort were waiting.

The sun had barely moved a hand’s breadth across the sky when the riders crossed over into the next glen and were lost from sight.

Once back at Craig Phádraig, she settled into the routine of the seminary, avoiding Broichan as much as possible, her defiance secret, her anger against him simmering, comforting herself in the lonely evenings with the knowledge that Broichan was jealous of her power and by watching Adam from afar. When he joined Robbie for bicycle rides or hikes in the hills she could see them from the body of a skylark, high above the fields; when he lay at night in bed, dreaming of her, she knew it and crept to the window sill in the body of a village cat, purring with secret delight, and when he swam in the burn up on the hillside, relishing the last of the summer’s heat, she thought herself into the slim brown body of a mountain trout and flicked her tail against his naked thighs.

It was while she was watching Adam in her quiet cell one stormy autumnal night that Broichan walked in and caught her.

‘So, little cat, you have learned to spy on your lover.’ Broichan’s voice was a silky murmur.

Brid jumped with fear. The small room, lit only by the smoky flame of an oil lamp, was full of leaping shadows.

Watching her, Broichan smiled. ‘Such a waste. You have great gifts, my niece. You could have been a priestess, a seer, a bard, who knows, even a queen.’ He folded his arms under his cloak. ‘But you choose to betray me. You cannot be trusted with your talents – you waste them on a village boy and sully your initiation vows. Only one thing can redeem you, little Brid. Your blood shall be given to the gods with your brother’s when the time comes to dedicate the stone, so that your soul can be born again in a fresh guileless body –’

‘No!’ She made to stand up, her face as white as alabaster, but he raised his hand and held it in front of her.

Between his fingers, swinging at the end of a fine gold chain, was the egg-shaped polished red stone, its translucence gleaming in the light of the flame. ‘Don’t move, little Brid. Don’t even blink your eyes. You see, I can enchant you with the magic sleep and hold you here until I need you.’ He laughed softly. ‘Poor little niece. So clever, but not quite clever enough.’ He reached into the depths of his clothes and brought out a long-bladed knife. He held it for a moment in front of her unblinking eyes, letting the light of the flickering flame play on the gleaming blade. Gently he pressed it flat against her cheek. She did not flinch and he chuckled. ‘You will remember nothing of this, little Brid. Nothing at all when you awake. You will obey me and you will stay quietly here, to await your fate.’ Tucking the knife away again he leaned forward and snapped his fingers under her nose.

She jumped and stared at him, blinking. ‘Uncle –’

‘You work too hard, Niece.’ Broichan gave a cruel laugh. ‘Sleep now. I have great plans for you, my dear.’

He walked out of the small room. Behind him the flame on the lamp flickered.

The evening before he was due to go to Edinburgh Adam walked up one last time towards the stone. His trunk was packed and strapped, ready to go, in the hall. Tomorrow the carter would pick it up and take it to the station.

He was feeling a little guilty as he climbed the hillside. Overwhelmed with excitement about the future he had spared practically no thought for Brid and Gartnait at all over the last month. In his knapsack was a chocolate cake. A peace offering and perhaps a farewell.

The stone was in shadow. Panting slightly he stood as he had so often, running his fingers over the intricate designs carved on it. Below him, the hillside fell away into the velvet night. High above, on the west-facing slope, the sunlight still reflected pink onto the blackened heather and the rock. The evening was very still. He could hear no birds. Even the wind in the sparse grasses had died. He slung his bag off his shoulder and dropped it, then he stepped away from the stone. The Z-shaped cut – he thought of it as a lightning bolt, though Gartnait called it the broken spear – threw a hard narrow shadow across the smoothed surface of the granite. Beside it the carved serpent writhed unfinished, the tail only half drawn. It was the only incomplete carving on the stone. Under it the mirror looked as though someone had been scraping at it. The lichen had been rubbed away. He frowned. That was strange. As far as he knew he was the only person in the whole world, apart from Brid and Gartnait, who ever came to this lonely spot.

He walked slowly round, mentally recording each detail of the place that had meant so much to him, as though already he knew he would never come back. His plan was to leave the cake behind. He was pretty sure that Brid would not find it, but the birds and animals of the high screes would.

The sound of Brid’s voice behind him made him leap out of his skin. ‘A-dam! I knew you would come. I sent a message in my head to bring you here.’ Suddenly she was sobbing. She threw her arms around his neck, then, uncharacteristically she drew back. ‘I must come with you. My uncle plans to kill me.’ The statement, so flat and unemotional, stunned him into total silence. ‘He put me into a magic sleep, and he told me what he was going to do. But I have more power than him!’ She let out a wild burst of laughter. ‘I pretended to sleep, but I heard him. I did not make a sign. I did not move my face, but when he had gone I made my plans. I took one of his best ponies and rode in the middle of the night, and I rode until I came home.’ She smiled wearily, a humourless, cold smile which chilled him. ‘He plans to kill my brother too when the stone is finished. He knows now that Gartnait and I know what the stone is for. It marks the gateway to other times and to knowledge that is forbidden to all but the highest initiates, so we must both die. You see the mirror? That is the sign that from here you can see through the reflections into other worlds. That is how I have come to you. I am not going back. There is only a small part of the work left. When the serpent is finished Broichan will give orders that we are to be buried under the stone – a sacrifice to the gods.’ The hardness vanished and she kneaded her fists into her eyes like a child. ‘Gartnait has gone. He has gone south with my mother three days ago. He wanted me to go too, but I stayed. I waited for you.’

Adam had a strange cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘Brid, what are you talking about? Your mother and Gartnait would never leave you. Your uncle would never kill you. This is nonsense. All of it.’

‘Nonsense?’ she echoed wildly. ‘Broichan is the chief priest of this land. His word is the law. Even the king would not defy him if it was over a matter of the gods.’ Her eyes hardened again and he recoiled. ‘A-dam, don’t you see, you have to save me! I have to live in your world now. I am going to come with you. To your school in Edinburgh!’

‘No!’ Adam stepped back further. ‘No, Brid. I’m sorry, but you can’t. It’s impossible.’

‘Why can’t I?’ Her eyes were fixed on his face.

‘Because you can’t.’ He was filled with horror at the idea.

‘You can’t stop me! A-dam, I have nowhere else to go.’

‘Go with Gartnait and Gemma. You belong with them.’

‘I can’t. They have gone to the south.’

‘Then you must follow them. This is nonsense. Brid, I can’t take you to Edinburgh! I’m sorry.’

‘But you love me, A-dam.’

‘Yes …’ He paused. ‘Yes, I love you, Brid.’ It was the truth, but at the same time, he realised suddenly, there was a part of him which would be quite glad never to see her again. Her angry outbursts and her possessiveness, her wild declamations, had become alarming. And at the same time there was a part of him which had already begun to separate itself from Pittenross and everything there. He softened his voice. ‘Our love is for here. For the holidays. There is no place for you in Edinburgh. None at all.’ He hesitated. ‘Brid, women are not allowed where I’m going.’ He did not like to lie but in a way it was the truth. Robbie had found them digs to share off the High Street and one of the landlady’s conditions was, ‘nae young women’. Sharing the digs there would be only one other, a skeleton Robbie had bagged for him from a newly qualified doctor. The story was that the skeleton, known as Knox, had been divested of its skin and flesh by the young man himself who had now headed south for London to become a dermatologist.

‘Brid.’ Adam took a deep breath and caught her hands gently in his own. ‘You have to go back. I’m sorry. You know you aren’t really in danger.’ He deliberately closed his mind to the picture of Broichan with this cruel eyes, wild hair, and savage, tight-lipped mouth. ‘That was all a wonderful fantasy. A game we played when we were children.’ He frowned. ‘Brid, there’s a war about to start. I’m going to be a doctor. Please understand.’ He touched her face gently. ‘It’s just not possible.’

‘A-dam …’ Her face was ashen. ‘War does not matter to me. I will help you with the wounded. Please. I love you.’ She grabbed the front of his sweater. ‘If I go back I will die.’

‘No, Brid.’

‘A-dam. You do not understand.’ She was clinging to him, her face hard.

‘Brid, I do. Listen. You have to go back to find Gartnait and Gemma. Next holidays we’ll meet and we’ll compare notes, all right? You must understand. You cannot come with me.’

She let go of him so suddenly he staggered backwards. Through her tears her eyes were blazing. ‘A-dam, I will never let you go. Never!’ Her voice was almost vicious.

Adam stared at her, shocked. The skin on the back of his neck was prickling suddenly, but he managed to remain calm. ‘No, Brid, I’m sorry.’ He stepped away from her. ‘Please, try and understand.’ He could not bear the look in her eyes any longer.

He turned and began to run as fast as he could down the hillside, away from her.

6

The digs were situated up a curved stair in a narrow wynd of tall grey corbelled houses off the High Street. Adam felt an initial wave of intense claustrophobia as he surveyed his new domain, with its small hard bed, empty bookshelf and wobbly table, and then, seeing it instead through Robbie’s proud eyes he shifted his point of view and saw it as a haven of independence.

Throwing his bags down on the bed, next to which lay his trunk, he raised his hands above his head and gave out an exultant shout of freedom. They were, Robbie told him gleefully, just ten yards from the nearest pub. In the corner the skeleton of Knox grinned amiably at him. Within seconds it had acquired a hat and a university scarf, the box containing Adam’s gas mask was slung irreverently round its shoulders – it was only days after Chamberlain had returned from Munich and the threat of war had receded once more – and the two young men had pelted back down the stairs to sample a pint of Tennent’s. It was the first time that Adam had ever been in a bar.

It was a path they were to tread many times over the next few months between the exhausting rounds of lectures; in Robbie’s case they took place in the Old Quad, and in Adam’s in the new buildings in Teviot Place for chemistry, anatomy and dissection, in the Botanical Gardens for botany and in the King’s Buildings for zoology. After the initial strangeness of university life, and the shock of having so much freedom away from the deadening atmosphere of the manse, he took to the course like a duck to water, avidly soaking up each subject as it came, taking little time out to look for recreation. Once a week he wrote a dutiful note to his father. His mother he went to see at last.

She had changed out of all recognition. Gone was the tightly pulled-back hair, the sober dresses, the strained, pale face. When he walked hesitantly into the tea shop on Princes Street where they had agreed to meet he stood for a moment staring round, his gaze passing over the vivacious pretty woman with the swinging curly hair and fashionable hat who was sitting near him, already presiding over a teapot and a plate of cakes. Only when she stood up and held out her arms did he look into her eyes and see there the love and fear and compassion and feel the overwhelming rush of emotion which brought tears to his own eyes.

‘I wrote, Adam. I wrote often, my darling.’ She was holding his hand openly on the tabletop, playing obsessively with his fingers as though reassuring herself that they were all there. ‘You must believe me. You do understand? It’s not your father’s fault. He is such a good man. He must have thought it best if you didn’t get my letters.’ She looked away suddenly and he saw the pain; the glint of a tear on her eyelashes. ‘I wasn’t good enough for him, Adam. I’m weak. I needed things …’ She couldn’t speak for a moment and busied herself pouring more tea for him, her hand shaking slightly. ‘I was suffocating, Adam. I felt as though I would have died.’

He didn’t know what to say. Smiling at her silently he squeezed her hand and buried his face in his cup.

She was blowing her nose on a lace-trimmed handkerchief. After a moment she looked up at him and smiled. The tears had gone. ‘So. Are you going to be a good doctor?’

He grimaced. ‘I hope so.’ He withdrew his hand to stir some sugar into his cup. ‘If I am, it’s because I learned it from you. Visiting all those poor people in the parish. Hating to see them suffer. Wanting to help them.’

He looked down into his tea, distracted suddenly by a memory of a young man lying beneath a tree. Gartnait, with Brid’s small hands busy tending his wound. How strange. He had not given her a thought since he had been in Edinburgh.

He looked back at his mother. Her face was sober. ‘I hated all that. The visiting. I had no idea, when I married, what it entailed – being a minister’s wife.’ She paused, not noticing the crestfallen disillusion in her son’s eyes. ‘I’ve met someone, Adam. A good, kind, gentle, understanding man.’

Adam tensed. He didn’t want to hear this.

‘I hoped your father would divorce me. I was the guilty party.’ She glanced at Adam and looked away again. ‘That way I could marry again.’ She refused to meet his eye. ‘But of course he can’t do that, being in the church, so, I – well, I’ve had to pretend.’ She was staring down at her hands. Almost unwillingly Adam looked down too and saw that the narrow gold wedding band had gone. Instead she wore a ring of carved twisted silver.

‘I am sorry, Adam. I will understand if you hate me for it.’ She was pleading, still not looking at him.

He bit his lip. He wasn’t sure how he felt. Anger. Hurt. Rejection and yes, hatred, but not for her, for the unknown man who had stolen her from them.

He cleared his throat nervously. ‘Are you happy now?’

She nodded.

Again he looked away. She was happy! Had she ever really wondered how he was, imagined his loneliness, his desolation when she left? He found himself suddenly near to tears, remembering Wee Mikey’s teasing. The boys in the village had been right all along. She had gone off with another man. She was, as his father said, a whore.

He stood up abruptly. ‘I have to go, I’m afraid.’ He schooled his voice with care.

‘Adam!’ She looked up at him at last, devastated.

‘I’m sorry, Mother.’ He didn’t even know what to call her, he realised suddenly. Not Mummy. Never Mummy. Not any more.

‘We will meet again, Adam? Soon?’ There were tears in her eyes again.

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’ Suddenly he couldn’t bear it a moment longer. Turning, he blundered out between the tables and almost ran into the street.

Jeannie Barron baked less often now. She had agreed to stay on after Adam left; the minister’s needs were very meagre and the house very quiet. Her work did not take her so long, and it was cheerless without Adam there. So it was with some pleasure that she looked up at the knock on the kitchen door and saw the pretty face with its frame of long dark hair peering round at her.

‘Brid, my lass. How nice to see you.’ She smiled and beckoned the child in. But she wasn’t a child any longer. As Brid sat down at the kitchen table and fixed Jeannie with a cold stare the woman felt a shiver of apprehension whisper over her skin. ‘So, how are you? You’ll be missing Adam, as we all are,’ she said slowly. She turned the dough and thumped it with her fist.

‘You will tell me where he is.’ Brid’s eyes, fixed on hers, were very hard.

Jeannie glanced up. ‘Did he not tell you where he was going?’ Alarm bells rang in her head.

‘He tells me he is going to Edinburgh to study healing.’

‘Aye, that’s right.’ Jeannie smiled, relaxing again. ‘He’s very bright is our Adam.’

‘I will go too.’ Brid folded her arms. Her expression had not changed. ‘You will tell me how.’

‘How to go to Edinburgh? That’s difficult.’ Jeannie was playing for time. If Adam hadn’t given the girl an address to write to then he had a reason. ‘It costs money, lass. You’d need to go on the bus or on the train.’

Brid looked blank.

‘Why not wait until he comes home in the vacation? It’s not so long. He’ll be back before you know it. Besides, he hasn’t written to tell us yet where he’s staying.’ She hoped she would be forgiven the lie. ‘Edinburgh is very big, lass. Bigger than you can ever imagine. You would never find him.’

‘I will ask. The people will know where the healers’ school is. You will give me money.’

Jeannie shook her head. ‘No, Brid. I’m sorry. I can’t afford to hand out money, lass. You must find your own.’

‘I will have yours.’ Brid had spotted Jeannie’s handbag on the dresser. Pushing back her chair she moved towards it, putting out her hand.

‘No!’ Jeannie had seen what was coming. Stepping away from the table she grabbed it, covering it in flour. ‘No, miss! I had a feeling you were no better than you ought to be. You get out of here now. This minute, or I’ll call the minister! If you want to go to Edinburgh you go your own way, but I warn you, you’ll not find Adam. If he wanted you to know where he was he would have told you. So, that’s an end of it, do you hear me?’

For a moment there was total silence in the room. Brid stared at her with eyes of flint and Jeannie felt a jolt of real fear. She swallowed hard. The minister was actually not in his study. She wasn’t sure where he was. Visiting someone in the parish, perhaps, or in the kirk. She straightened her shoulders. Brid was only a slim wee thing. Why should she feel so afraid?

She read the fatal message in Brid’s eyes for just one second before Brid put her hand to her leather belt and calmly drew her knife. She tried to run, but it was too late. The beaten and polished iron weapon caught her between the shoulderblades before she had taken more than one step and she fell awkwardly, clutching the bag to her chest as the blood slowly welled out over her pale blue cardigan. The only sound she made was a small gasp.

Brid stood still, amazed at the incredible surge of energy and excitement which had shot through her. Then, expressionless, she wrestled the bag from Jeannie’s clutch and opened it, tipping the contents on the floor. She surveyed the items with interest. There was a little round mother-of-pearl powder compact, given to Jeannie by Adam’s mother when she realised that the minister would not allow her to keep such a frivolity. A comb. A handkerchief. A small diary. A purse and a wallet. She ignored the wallet, which contained a large white five-pound note, not recognising it as money. The compact she took and examined. She pushed the small catch on the side and gasped as it opened to reveal a mirror. For a moment she stared at herself, rapt in wonder, then, hastily, she tucked it inside her dress. Then she reached for the purse. Inside were nine shillings, three sixpences, four pennies and a ha’penny. She hoped it was enough to go to Edinburgh.

Adam met Liza when she was drawing his corpse. Dissection fascinated him. It was meticulous, delicate and the structures of skin and muscle and organ that he uncovered were beautiful beyond anything he had ever imagined. The young men who shared his class joked and complained about the smell of formalin and messed about to cover their unease at what they were doing, but Adam was completely enchanted. They thought he was mad; a bit of a swot. Only Liza understood. She arrived one morning, a large portfolio under her arm, her bright clothes and long, flame-coloured scarf a shocking contrast to the dark walls and the sober overalls of the young men.

She smiled at them from huge, amber-coloured eyes and tossed her long auburn hair back over her shoulders. ‘Do you mind if I draw your body?’ She was already setting up her easel just behind Adam’s elbow. Their supervisor was ostentatiously looking in the other direction. ‘I won’t get in your way, I promise.’

Adam was astonished. The women’s dissection room was separate from the men’s across the corridor. His surprise turned to irritation. She must have bribed a servitor or one of the lecturers to get in and she was a distraction. She made his colleagues, never serious at the best of times, behave in an even more silly fashion than usual. She herself though was as serious as he was, scowling with concentration as she sharpened her pencils and drew with meticulous detail the facial structures beneath the skin.

It was she who suggested that Adam have a cup of tea with her after the session. ‘You take your work seriously. Much more than the other boys.’ She smiled at him gravely. ‘Are you planning to be a surgeon?’ There was a faint accent there, attractive, lilting. He could not place it.

He shrugged. ‘I’ve always assumed I’ll be a GP. I like people. When you’re a surgeon they’re always asleep. Or so you hope.’ He gave a slow smile. He had grown up a great deal in the first months of his new life.

She responded dazzlingly. ‘In a way it’s a pity. You’ve got wonderful hands.’ She reached across the table and took one, opening it palm up and looking at it through narrowed eyes. ‘Your life line is very strong.’ She traced it with her fingertip. ‘And look, there will be three women in your life.’ She glanced up at him under her eyelashes, laughing. ‘Lucky women!’

Embarrassed, he pulled his hand away, feeling the colour rising in his cheeks. ‘Where did you learn to hand read?’ His father would have had fifty fits.

‘From my mother. I inherited my art from my father.’ She pulled the sugar bowl towards her and drew patterns in the crystals with the spoon. ‘I’m studying to be a portrait painter. But I need to know how the whole body works. However much you observe and notice the colour and the texture and the shadows of the skin, unless you know about the musculature and bones underneath, you’re not going to get the depiction strong enough.’ She paused and a shadow crossed her face. ‘It’s still hard for women, you know. They made an awful fuss about me wanting to come and draw your corpse this morning.’

‘Did they?’ He was beginning to fall under her spell. ‘I expect they thought you would distract us.’ He grinned. ‘You did. Why didn’t you go to the women’s class?’

She smiled. ‘I tried. They were much stricter. No outsiders. I didn’t distract you though. You were the serious one.’

‘I think I’m a serious person.’ He shrugged self-deprecatingly. ‘But I’ve one or two chums who are working very hard to reform me.’

‘Good. Let me help. Do you want to come round to see my studio?’

He nodded. He was beginning to feel extremely happy.

She did not reappear in the dissecting room but it was arranged that he would go to visit her the following Saturday.

It was on the day before that he received a letter from his father telling him about Jeannie Barron’s death.

The police can find no motive. It is completely senseless. Her handbag was rifled, but the blaggard left her wallet. He took her purse and her powder compact as far as we can guess. From what Ken says she used to keep them in there. They haven’t found the weapon. No one saw anything or heard anything …

The minister’s anguish poured off the page but Adam had stopped reading. He was crying like a child.

He almost didn’t go to Liza’s, but he had no way of getting in touch with her and in the end he was glad to get out of his rooms. Robbie’s shocked anger at what had happened – he too had known Jeannie since he was a little boy – didn’t help, nor did his way of dealing with it, which was to go out and get very drunk.

The studio was in an old loft overlooking the Water of Leith. Adam climbed the narrow dark stairway and knocked on the door, completely unprepared for the assault on his senses which the opening of the door provoked. The huge single room where Liza lived and worked was flooded with light from two floor-length windows. More than three-quarters of the floor space was given over to a studio, the bare boards splashed with paint, two easels in place, one with a picture, covered with a cloth, the other bearing a half-finished portrait of an old man. A large refectory table was barely visible under paints and pencils and palettes, knives and brushes and on a plate in one corner, Adam couldn’t help but notice with a slight shudder, there was a sandwich liberally sprouting a rather pretty green mould.

Liza’s living corner in contrast was far from spartan. The divan bed was covered in a scarlet bedspread; there were cushions and Victorian silk shawls, bright rag rugs, and an old hatstand where hung her supply of long gypsy skirts and shirts and jumpers. On the other side of the space was a small gas ring and a large chipped enamel sink. ‘Home!’ She welcomed him with outflung arms. ‘What do you think of it?’

Adam was stunned into silence. He had never seen a place like this before, never met anyone quite like Liza. He was intrigued, and enchanted and shocked to the roots of his Presbyterian soul. She fed him hot buttered toast and jam and huge chunks of crumbly cheese and pots of strong tea and showed him her paintings, which were in themselves deeply shocking to him. They were powerful, vibrant evocations of personality, ugly in their reality, uncomfortable to look at and, he decided, rightly, probably very good indeed. He wandered round, toast dripping jam in his hand, speechless as he turned canvas after canvas to face him. There were landscapes as well – rugged, moody landscapes which he didn’t recognise, but more than anything he liked the portraits.

She looked over his shoulder at a dark stormy scene of rocky mountains and torn, tortured clouds. ‘Wales,’ she said. ‘I’m Welsh. Or at least half of me is. My Da was Italian, but I never knew him.’ She began to wind up the gramophone. ‘Do you like music? I love it. Especially opera.’ She slid a record out of its paper sleeve and put it on the turntable. ‘Listen.’

It was another assault on his senses. He had never heard anything like it before. It was loud and sensuous and strident and wild. He could feel his blood beginning to race, emotions he never knew he possessed swirling up through him. Then the music stilled and grew sad and, overwhelmed by it all, to his intense embarrassment he found there were tears in his eyes. He couldn’t control them and frantically he turned away from her to stare out of the window across the rocky stream towards the huddled buildings on the opposite bank.

Liza had noticed. Silently she followed him and took his hand. ‘What is it, Adam? What’s wrong?’

It all came out. Jeannie. The manse. His father. His mother. The man she lived with in sin, but who made her so very, very happy.

Liza was appalled. Quietly she held him against her shoulder as though he were a child and let him cry. The record came to an end and hissed quietly on the turntable, waiting for the needle to be lifted off. They ignored it. He could feel a quiet sense of peace and security engulfing him, slowly healing his pain. When at last Liza moved the tears were gone. And so was his embarrassment.

She put another record on, Chopin this time, and they listened to it together thoughtfully, sitting relaxed near each other but not touching, as the light faded from the sky. Later they went for a pie and mash at a pub in Leith Walk and they laughed and they chattered and he learned about her family – an eccentric mother, kindly, warm, much-loved farming grandparents, but nothing about her exotic father – and then at last he saw her home before taking the tram back to the High Street. By the time he got back to his digs he thought he was probably in love.

In the end Brid had not needed the money in the purse to go to Edinburgh. As she walked south along the road from Pittenross in the pouring rain a car pulled up beside her. ‘Do you want a lift?’ A woman was at the wheel.

Brid was dropped in Princes Street as it grew dark. Staring at the crowds, the cars, the trams, she turned slowly round, afraid and very lost. ‘A-dam?’ She murmured his name out loud against the shouts of a newsboy calling the evening edition of the paper from a stand by the side of the road. ‘A-dam, where are you?’

Somehow she had to find somewhere quiet, then she could use her art to find him. As long as he had her silver pendant on him, it would be easy.

Adam did not go back to the manse for Christmas. He and Robbie packed their rucksacks and hitched a lift with one of their fellow students down to Newcastle for the winter break. They drank a lot of beer and walked some way along Hadrian’s Wall and talked about the likelihood of war.

Back in Edinburgh Adam saw as much of Liza as he could, though they were both working hard. Her dedication to her art was total, he learned, and it took precedence over everything. It was just as well, as his own chosen career did not leave a lot of time spare for a social life. Much to Robbie’s disgust, he was spending more and more time at his studies with only the occasional respite.

One evening he did spare for Liza. It was her birthday. Poverty stricken as usual, he agonised for a long time over what to give her, then providence pointed the way. He had been rummaging through some boxes in his untidy room and under some books and notes he found an old cigarette carton. Shaking it hopefully he heard something rattle. Brid’s pendant had fallen out of the tissue paper he had wrapped it in and lay in the palm of his hand, tarnished but very beautiful. He looked down at the intricate, interwoven pattern, the tiny links in the chain, and just for a moment he felt a twinge of guilt at the idea which had leaped into his mind. He put the guilt aside at once. Brid would never know; he doubted if he would ever see her again anyway, and he had made it clear to her, hadn’t he, that men did not wear such things. And the beauty and craftsmanship would appeal enormously to Liza. Smiling to himself, he set about polishing it up.

Liza held it for a long time in her hand, gazing at it. Then at last she looked up at Adam and smiled. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips, then she let him hang it round her neck.

It was the next day after taking Liza out to a quick lunch between lectures that Adam thought he saw Brid. Hand in hand he and Liza were walking up the Mound past the National Gallery, Liza wearing the pendant at the neck of her blouse, when Adam happened to glance across the road towards the Castle. A group of people were walking fast down the other pavement, laughing, some of the young men in uniform. The road was busy, full of traffic, and he could not see them clearly, but a figure walking slowly behind them caught his eye.

He stopped, shocked. The dark hair, the pale skin; something about the walk, the angle of the head …

‘What is it, Adam? What’s wrong?’ Liza caught his arm. ‘You’ve gone white as a sheet. What’s happened?’

‘Nothing.’ He took a deep breath, astonished to feel how shaken he was. ‘I thought I saw someone I knew from home, that’s all. But it couldn’t have been.’

‘Are you sure?’ Liza studied him for a moment and he looked away uncomfortably. Why did he sometimes get the feeling that she could read his very soul?

‘No. It wasn’t.’ The pavement was empty now. The crowd had hurried on. The slowly moving traffic threaded its way down the hill and whoever the woman had been, he could no longer see her.

That night he dreamed about Brid. He dreamed they made love and then he dreamed that she tried to drown him in the fairy pool. He woke screaming and lay there, sweating, waiting for Robbie to come in swearing at being woken up. But Robbie, who a month before had signed up to join the RAFVR, was not there. He was three miles away fast asleep in the arms of a student nurse Adam had introduced him to only the previous day.

Adam lay staring at the ceiling for the rest of the night, watching for the meagre grey dawn to creep into the close and fight its way through his window before he got up at last and began wearily to shave with a kettleful of hot water.

He saw his first death that day. He was visiting a fellow student who had fallen down the twisting stair to his digs after imbibing several pints and broken his leg. At the end of the ward there was a young man who had been taken to the Infirmary after an accident in the factory where he was working. He had fallen into unprotected machinery and his leg had been severed just below the hip. As he left the ward, Adam lingered a moment to look at the white face on the white pillow and the young man had opened his eyes and looked straight at him. Reading the pain and terror and loneliness in the bright blue gaze Adam went across to the bed and put a gentle hand on the young man’s shoulder. It was only minutes later that he realised the young man was dead. To his surprise for a while after life had gone the eyes stayed just as bright. He stood staring down, unable to take in the moment he had witnessed. Then the ward sister who had been escorting the doctor and his train of third-year students turned back and saw him. She touched Adam’s arm. ‘You all right?’ Her smile was kind. ‘It was nice of you to stay with him.’ She pulled up the sheet with calm professionalism. ‘On your way now, young man. Forget what you have seen.’

‘I saw him die.’ Sitting on the floor of Liza’s studio, his arms round his legs, his chin on his knees, Adam was still trying to come to terms with it. ‘And yet for a minute I couldn’t see any difference. He was white, but he was white before he died. He just stopped breathing. That’s all.’

She came and sat down beside him. They were listening to some Mozart. ‘Perhaps his spirit was still there. It didn’t want to go.’ She smiled. ‘You did the right thing, Adam, to be with him. It must be very frightening to die alone.’

He shook his head. ‘Somehow I always saw myself as a doctor saving lives. Stepping in heroically and working miracles. I didn’t think about the ones we can’t save.’ They were silent for a few minutes. ‘War is coming, Liza. I’ll be staying on as a student because they’ll need doctors. Robbie will be in the RAF. What will you do?’

She shrugged. ‘I want to go on painting. I’ll do it as long as I can. It’s my whole life. I don’t want to do anything else.’ She paused. ‘I suppose the folks might want me to go home and help with the farm.’

‘Back to Wales?’

She nodded. ‘It hasn’t happened yet, Adam. Perhaps it won’t. Perhaps Hitler will change his mind.’ She shook her head violently. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t bear the thought of him interfering in all our lives. I want everything to stay the same. I want to paint sunsets and flowers and happiness. I can’t think about war. I won’t.’

Adam gave a rueful smile. ‘We won’t have any choice. It’s in the air everywhere. Besides,’ he nodded over his shoulder at her shrouded easel, ‘you never paint sunsets and flowers and happiness. You wouldn’t know how.’

She let out a shout of laughter. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

The first time they made love was after they had been to a concert together at the Usher Hall. As they walked through the darkened streets he put his arm round her shoulders and drew her to him.

‘Liza –’

She put her finger to his lips to silence him and then gently kissed him. They climbed the stairs to her studio and in the soft darkness she led him across to her bed.

They spent the summer together, and by the time the new term began they were inseparable. Liza was not like Brid in any way. Her loving was warm. In spite of her sometimes acerbic manner, with Liza he felt safe and secure and welcomed. All thoughts of the manse and the unhappiness there vanished. He had found someone in whom he could confide all his fears and hopes.

All his fears but one.

He saw Brid again one Thursday at the beginning of the new university year on South Bridge, and this time he was sure it was her.

Leaving Liza on the tram with a quick wave he had just jumped off with three fellow medics, a pile of books in his arms, his white coat slung across his shoulder, on his way to a physics lecture. The young men were laughing and talking loudly, dodging between the trams and cars, ducking their heads against cold relentless sheets of rain. Shaking his wet hair out of his eyes he looked up and saw her staring at him across the street.

‘A-dam –’ He saw her mouth frame the word, but as before the traffic was heavy and the street was crowded and when he looked again she had gone.

He was not proud of what he did next. Instead of crossing the road to look for her he dived after his friends into the Old Quad and forged ahead, leaving the spot where he had seen her far behind.

Handing in his card to the servitor in his top hat, Adam edged into his seat in the lecture hall and found that his hands were shaking. He stared down at them, fiercely willing them into fists. What was the matter with him? Why was he so afraid? Was it that she brought memories of the manse, things he wanted to forget? Or was it guilt, that he had abandoned her so easily and put her out of his mind? Whatever it was he did not want to see her again. After all, it was a coincidence almost too big to be possible that she should be in Edinburgh. It was probably his imagination. Comforted, he sat back and gave his attention to the professor in front of him.

Liza stood back from the canvas and chewed the end of her paint brush. She glanced at her watch and smiled. A good time to stop.

The knock on the door came at exactly the right moment. She and Adam were planning to bike over to the Royal Botanical Gardens for a picnic in the warm autumnal sunshine. The bicycles were a new idea, borrowed from friends of hers who had graduated to a three-wheeled Morgan. ‘Come in. It’s not locked!’ She was rinsing the brush in a jar of turps and did not turn round. ‘I’ll be with you in two seconds, Adam. I’ve done a lot of work this morning. What do you think?’ She turned, gesturing at the canvas and stopped short. Standing in the doorway was a strange young woman with long dark hair. ‘I’m sorry,’ Liza frowned, puzzled. ‘I thought you were someone else.’

‘You thought I was A-dam.’ The girl stepped into the studio and closed the door behind her. She was dressed in an ankle-length, russet dress with a soft woollen coat over it which came to her feet. On her shoulder hung a loosely woven bag. Her eyes were as hard as flint.

‘Who are you?’ Liza put down her brush and rag. The skin on the back of her neck had begun to prickle. There was something about this strange young woman which made her very uncomfortable. She moved surreptitiously a little nearer to the table and groped behind her for the knife with which she had been scraping her palette.

‘It does not matter who I am.’ The voice was strangely monotone.

‘I think it does. You are in my home. I would like to know what you want.’

‘You are A-dam’s girlfriend.’ The voice, though still flat, held venom.

Liza’s questing fingers found what she was looking for and she quietly picked up the palette knife. She stepped back again, putting the table between her and her visitor, praying that Adam would appear. Her nerves were beginning to scream. ‘I am his friend, certainly,’ she said cautiously. ‘If you are looking for him, he’ll be here soon.’

The young woman did not look round. Her eyes were fixed on Liza’s face. ‘I do not need you,’ she said calmly. ‘A-dam does not need you.’ She was reaching into her bag as she spoke.

Liza gasped. She saw a blade flash as the woman raised her arm and had barely registered the knife when without thinking she threw herself down behind the table at the same moment as she heard Adam’s cheerful shout from the bottom of the stairs.

‘Adam!’ she screamed. ‘Adam, be careful!’

He found her sobbing on her knees, the palette knife still clutched in her hand, her fingers covered in thick yellow paint.

‘Liza! Liza, what is it? What’s wrong?’ He was down beside her on his knees. ‘Tell me. What happened?’

‘Where is she?’ Shaking, Liza managed to stand up. ‘For God’s sake, Adam, who was she?’ She was staring round wildly. The studio was empty.

‘Who? What? What happened?’

‘That woman! That girl! You must have seen her?’ Unaware of the paint on her hand she pushed her hair back off her face, leaving a smear of yellow across her forehead. ‘She tried to kill me!’

Adam closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. Why had he thought immediately of Brid?

‘Describe her,’ he said. He led her to the bed and sat her down gently. Then he walked over to the door and stared down the stairs. As he had climbed them in the dark, glad to be out of the cutting wind, he had been halfway up when a cat had fled past him. He had time only to register the dark shape, the fierce green eyes, the wild fury of the claws on the worn steps, and it was gone. ‘There’s no other way out of here is there?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Then she must still be here.’ He walked slowly round the studio searching every corner, every cupboard, every shadow. There was no one there.

‘She was small, dark hair. Long dark-red clothes. She spoke with a funny foreign accent.’

Brid.

‘What do you mean, she tried to kill you?’ Adam sat down beside her.

‘She pulled out a knife and threw it at me.’

‘Are you sure, Liza?’ His voice was gentle. ‘Where is it? Where is she? I don’t see how anyone could have been here. I would have seen her.’ He found himself picturing the cat’s eyes as it raced past him down the stairs.

‘Are you telling me I’m making it up?’ Liza stared at him furiously. ‘Adam, for God’s sake, I know if someone tried to kill me or not!’

‘Then we should call the police.’ His hands were shaking. He pushed them firmly into his pockets.

‘Of course we should call the police. There’s a potential murderer running round here. Look over there. The knife must be somewhere. I saw her hurl it at me as I threw myself on the floor. She couldn’t have gone to look for it. There was no time.’

But there was no knife. They looked for half an hour, combing every inch of the studio.

‘So. Who is she?’ Liza had cleaned off the paint and was feeling calmer.

Adam shrugged. For a moment he wondered if he should deny his suspicions, but Liza knew him too well. She had already read the dawning horror in his eyes. He sat down on her divan and felt in his pocket for his cigarettes. The pendant he had given Liza, Brid’s pendant, was lying where Liza had left it, on the side table under the lamp. He could see the soft gleam of silver from where he sat.

‘It sounds like Brid. She’s someone I saw quite a bit of at home,’ he said at last. He refused to meet her eye. ‘We used to explore the hills in the holidays. Her brother was – is – a stone mason. He carves brilliantly. I think,’ he hesitated, ‘I think the family have rather exotic roots. They’re very excitable.’ He made it sound something unpleasant. ‘Brid has a very short temper. She’s attacked me before now.’ He gave a small, uncomfortable laugh.

‘And what is she doing in Edinburgh?’

‘She must have followed me.’ He shook his head. ‘I told her it was all over. We were kids together, that was all. She was going to college up north and I was coming here. There was no future for us. None at all.’ He paused for a moment, then he went on. ‘But she didn’t like it. She wanted to come with me. I told her no. I never expected her to follow me.’

‘Had you seen her here before?’

He shook his head, but she saw the troubled look in his eyes.

‘Adam?’

He shook his head again. ‘I wondered if I had seen her the other day, in the distance. But then she wasn’t there.’ He shrugged helplessly.

‘She’s obviously good at disappearing acts.’

‘Yes.’ He shivered. ‘Yes, she is.’

‘And is she capable of trying to kill someone?’

Miserably he stared at the floor. ‘I think perhaps she might be,’ he said at last.

They did not tell the police in the end. There seemed no point.

Susan Craig was sitting in the corner of the tea room, her back to the wall.

Adam had seen her only once since their first encounter. ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t much time.’ He sat down opposite her. ‘We’ve a lot of studying to do at the moment.’

‘Of course, dear. I’m so proud of you.’ She had already ordered the tea. Pouring it into two cups, she pushed one towards him. ‘Adam, there is something I must tell you.’ She was perched uncomfortably on the edge of her chair. ‘I’ve … we’ve, that is, my friend and I have decided to go away.’ She spoke in a rush, not looking at him. ‘To America.’

Adam stared at her.

She blushed uncomfortably. ‘No one will know us there. We can make a new start, and with the war coming and everything …’ Her voice trailed away again and she stared down into her cup.

Adam was silent for a minute. Different emotions whirled round his head: anger, loss, contempt – what kind of man ran away from his country when it was about to go to war?

‘Adam?’ She was staring at him anxiously.

He forced himself to smile. ‘I hope you’ll both be happy, Mother.’ What else was there to say?

Two days later, Chamberlain announced that Hitler had not responded to his ultimatum and that therefore Britain was at war. Some weeks after that Robbie, already in the VR, was called up. Whether it was his decision or that of His Majesty’s government Adam was not sure, but his friend’s excitement at giving up the study of Latin and Greek civilisation for the patrolling of the clouds as part of the City of Edinburgh Fighter Auxiliary Squadron seemed totally unfeigned. To celebrate, he arranged a trip out to Cramond Inn for himself and his new girlfriend Jane. Adam and Liza went too.

Jane Smith-Newland had been a Classics student in Robbie’s tutorial. He was besotted by her. She was tall and slim with huge brown eyes and thick soft honey-coloured hair, tied in a schoolgirl plait. Her family were English, her father already high in the ranks of the army, her mother living in the south in their big house in the Home Counties. Adam, meeting her for the first time after growing used to Robbie’s usual flighty girlfriends, was fascinated by her accent, her background, her combination of reticence and the confidence which money brought her. She had beautiful clothes, a car of her own – an old Wolsey Hornet – bought for her by her parents, an almost unimagined extravagance to a penniless medical student. Lovely jewellery, and in complete contrast to all that, a genuine, deep fascination with Latin, Greek and the history of ancient civilisations, which had brought her to university instead of, as her mother and father had intended, being launched into London society. She was like no one Adam had ever met before. He could not keep his eyes off her.

As they crept with shaded headlights down the narrow roads on the way to Cramond Liza groped for Adam’s hand on the back seat. ‘At least she can’t follow us out here,’ she whispered above the sound of the engine. She was convinced Brid was still shadowing her. Adam was not so sure. He had seen no sign of her, and it made no sense for her to be following Liza. If she wanted to see Adam why did she not find his rooms and confront him personally? Presumably if she had been following them, she knew where he lived too. At first that thought had filled him with apprehension, but soon, very soon, the worry had passed and he had convinced himself that Liza had imagined the whole episode.

‘At least who can’t follow you?’ Jane glanced in the driving mirror and caught Adam’s eye in the darkness. Her hearing was obviously very acute.

‘Just an old girlfriend of Adam’s,’ Liza put in. ‘She seems reluctant to let him go.’

‘Popular man, our Adam.’ Robbie chuckled. ‘He’s always had to fight off the ladies!’

‘That’s rubbish, Rob.’ Adam could feel his face growing pink. He glanced at Liza and shook his head. He did not want to talk about Brid. And he did not want Robbie to know that she might have followed him to Edinburgh.

It was Jane who wouldn’t let the subject drop. ‘Who would have thought the strong, silent Adam Craig had a string of ladyfriends! You’ll have to watch out Liza, or you’ll lose him.’

The words hung in the silence for a moment as Jane changed gear and turned down Cramond Road. It was Robbie who leaped in to the rescue. Handsome in his uniform, he sat sideways on his seat, his arm behind her, fondling Jane’s neck. ‘I trust you’re not looking to be one of those ladies, Janie. I’d hate that. I know these doctor fellows can be irresistible, but not half as irresistible as an RAF chap, surely.’

‘Of course not!’ She laughed lightly. ‘As long as I don’t hear you’ve been tempted by some of those gorgeous WAAFs.’

On the back seat Liza’s hand tightened a little round Adam’s fingers. They looked at each other in the dark. ‘Robbie, be tempted by a WAAF!’ Adam put in lightly. ‘How could you ever imagine such a thing.’ He leaned forward and punched his friend gently on the shoulder. ‘Our Robbie’s no time for such frivolity. After all, he’s going to win the war single-handed, aren’t you, old boy!’

In the front seat Robbie smiled. He looked sideways at Jane and gave a modest shrug.

On the sixteenth of October German bombers flew low over the Forth and 602 and 603 Squadrons were scrambled. Robbie’s war had begun.

Brid had not expected it to be like this.

Her journey to Edinburgh had been easy. Prompted by the sixth sense inside her head she had found Liza when she first arrived with comparative ease. Then, inexplicably, she had lost her again. Her mind grew dizzy and clouded. She wandered, lost, around the city, vacant-eyed, afraid, not knowing where to go or what to do. Sometimes, asleep in a doorway or hidden in some secret place she would make the leap inside her head which would take her home to the hillside where Gartnait’s cross marked the transition point into her world. But always Broichan was lurking near and, afraid, she would come back to the place where her poor cold body was huddled out of sight. There were many places in this great city where she roamed, where the veils of time were thin. Slipping into the ruins of the Abbey of the Holy Rood she had felt the coldness of the mist and known it was one of them. In the great cathedral up the High Street where she slept unnoticed in the shadows, she felt it too. Deep beneath the foundations of the church there was a sacred place, a place where the goddess would be waiting if she looked for her. But she had not been prepared for the pain and the dislocation which overwhelmed her. Time was a concept which in the silence of her dreams had not existed; she had been born to transcend it – a genetic imprint from her mother’s womb – and her first teachers had been good. Quick to spot her natural ability they had taught her without caution and without initiation. They had not seen that ability without years of study might be dangerous. They did not think that this woman’s mind might fly beyond the natural confines of the philosopher’s cave and seek the stars. They did not remember that the longing of young eager flesh might prove stronger than the yearning for the alchemists’ stone of all knowledge or the threat of retribution when the absolute laws were broken. By the time Broichan had seen the danger and recognised her power it was too late and Brid, not knowing that having broken the bounds of time there are long black distances of nothingness between the suns, was lost. She did not know that the air she breathed in the twentieth century was not the same air; she did not know that the body that carried her spirit was subject to strains and pains she had not dreamed of. Curling down into the agony of adjustment, in the comparative security of the enclosed garden of an Edinburgh square, she escaped at last into sleep.

When she woke there was only one thought in her head, and that was to find Adam – and find him quickly. She would use her ancient arts again and locate him through the woman who she knew was in possession of the pendant.

‘No!’

Liza lashed out in her sleep, fighting the clinging blankets. Overhead she could hear the drone of engines. Sometimes the Luftwaffe came to reconnoitre the Royal Navy units at Rosyth, sometimes the bombers were on their way to Glasgow again. They were having a lousy time. She took a deep breath and, as she groped with a shaking hand on her side table for her cigarettes and a box of matches, thanked God that so far Edinburgh had been spared. Only when she was sitting up in bed, the ashtray on her knees, did she pause to wonder what had awoken her.

She rubbed her eyes and yawned deeply. There was something unpleasant there in the back of her mind and it had no connection with the throb of aircraft propellers and the thought of the deadly load the planes were about to drop into the blackness of the Scottish night. She lay back on her pillows, drawing the smoke deeply into her lungs.

A-dam!

The word in her head was spoken with a strange foreign accent. An accent she remembered vividly. Her eyes flew open and she stared into the dark shadows of the studio. With the blackouts drawn and no light save the small glow from her cigarette end the room was completely dark. The sound had been in her own mind, and yet, somehow it seemed to come from outside her. Hastily stubbing out the cigarette she swung her feet to the floor and sat still, listening. The drumming of the engines had faded into silence now. She could hear nothing but the soft murmur of the wind in the chimney of the stove.

Every sense was alert.

She could feel it more clearly now, probing in her mind like a finger inching its way over the surface of her cerebellum.

A-dam?

‘No, you bitch!’ Sliding off the bed, she shook her head violently. She cannoned into a chair and swore loudly, rubbing her shin. ‘No, you’re not finding him through me. I’m wise to you, girl. What kind of a sneaky witch are you, anyway?’ She rubbed her palms against her temples as hard as she could.

Switching on the lamp, she put a match to the gas and put on the kettle, taking comfort from the companionable hiss of the flame. The room was very cold. Pulling her scarlet shawl from the bed she wrapped it round her shoulders, shivering. It was there again, probing into her brain; she could almost feel the sharpness of the little iron-bladed knife digging the secrets of her life out of her head.

‘Why me? What do you want with me?’ She found she was backing across the studio, trying to move away from this horror in her mind. ‘You must know where he is? What do you want with me?’ It was the third time this had happened. And it was the worst. It was like hearing someone knocking, in the distance. At first it was not frightening – not even irritating. Then it would become more persistent and slowly her body’s responses would begin to work. The dry mouth, the cold tight stomach, the prickling at the back of her neck, the icy shiver gripping her lungs until she could hardly breathe as the weight of someone else’s mind slowly began to pull her down.

Suddenly it was too much. The empty building was too quiet around her, the echoing studio too lonely. Tearing off the shawl and her dressing gown she groped for sweater and jacket and a pair of woollen slacks. In two minutes she had let herself out of the building and was running along the path, divided from the river by old twisted railings, heading up towards the town.

Adam was woken by the hammering on his door. Fighting his way out of sleep he groped for his wrist watch, but he could see nothing. The blackout was still firmly drawn. He had no idea what time it was. Fumbling for the light switch he made his way to the door.

‘You’ve got to let me in. That bitch gypsy girlfriend of yours is after me! She’s using some kind of occult technique to get inside my head, Adam. You’ve got to do something about it.’ Liza pushed her way past him and sat down on his bed. She was shaking.

He glanced behind her down the darkened stairwell and closing the door he turned the key. ‘What happened?’ In the light of the single bulb in the ceiling he had established that it was four-thirty in the morning. He ran his fingers over his scalp. He had been studying his physiology notes until one and his head felt like a pan of mashed potato. ‘How did you get here, Liza?’

‘I ran.’ Her teeth were chattering. ‘I know it was stupid. I didn’t want to bring her to you, but I was scared. She was in the studio. In my head. She’s mad, Adam. Completely mad.’

He sat beside her and put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Tell me what happened. Slowly.’

There wasn’t much to tell. How can you explain intuition? Knowing something deep inside you? Instinct – and the pain of the probing knife?

‘When did you last see her?’ Calmer now, Liza stood up. She pulled one of Adam’s blankets off the bed and wrapped it round her shoulders. She was still wearing her coat and gloves.

He took the hint and went to light the small gas fire. ‘I haven’t. Not properly. I thought I saw her in the street a couple of times, then you said you’d seen her in the studio. Then nothing. Not a squeak.’ He looked up at her from his position in front of the fire. ‘She does know strange things – occult I suppose you could call them – and she told me she was studying things like that. But gypsies know these things anyway, don’t they? They have powers, the second sight.’

‘I have the second sight, Adam.’ She spoke so quietly he didn’t register what she had said for a moment. ‘That is why she can reach me. That is why I understand what is happening.’

He stared at her. ‘You don’t mean it. That’s ridiculous. That’s evil!’

‘Oh, there speaks the minister’s son! I knew you’d react like that if I told you.’ Her voice became bitter. ‘Adam, for God’s sake, I thought you had realised by now just what a bigoted, narrow upbringing you’ve had. Just because people don’t conform to what your father allowed in his narrow-minded little world doesn’t mean they’re evil!’

‘No, of course not.’ He blushed. ‘I didn’t mean that –’

‘Yes, you did.’

‘Liza …’ He stood up and went across to her, taking her hand. ‘Don’t let’s quarrel, please. Whatever you think of me and my background, don’t let it come between us.’ He chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully for a moment, then he looked at her. ‘I don’t think Brid is evil. At least she wasn’t. But she had different values from us. From you as well as from me. If she wants something –’ He stopped speaking with a shrug, then he gave a deep sigh. ‘I still don’t see how she could have got here. She knows nothing about our way of life, nothing about our century –’

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