Tales From The Dark Past - Books 4-5

Chapter 3

That face haunted my dreams. I was aware of Agnes tumbling into bed at my side and knew she wanted to talk about the initiation, and about Jim, but my mind was elsewhere.

I could see that carved face with the slightly almond-shaped eyes and the pointed ears whenever I closed my eyes. Yet the face was not made of wood. It was alive and looking down at me. I knew it was talking or trying to communicate, although I did not understand the words. It was hideous, emanating an ancient evil, and I wondered if it was connected to the whistling.

I lay in my hard bed, with the compressed straw mattress barely rustling under me and faint moonlight trickling through the bars on the window. The darkness surrounded me, suffocating, pressing down upon me like a solid weight, so dense that I felt I could cut it up if the attendants had not manacled me the bed.

I lay in my hard bed, with the compressed straw mattress barely rustling under me and faint moonlight trickling through the bars on the window. The darkness surrounded me, suffocating, pressing down upon me like a solid weight, so dense that I felt I could cut it up if the attendants had not manacled me the bed.Tears filled my eyes and trickled onto the mattress. There was no pillow; lunatic girls did not have such luxuries, and the single coarse grey blanket was insufficient to fend off the cold.

Tears filled my eyes and trickled onto the mattress. There was no pillow; lunatic girls did not have such luxuries, and the single coarse grey blanket was insufficient to fend off the cold.Even here, I could hear the whistling. It surrounded me, seemingly coming from the air itself, so I could not escape, wherever I went.

Even here, I could hear the whistling. It surrounded me, seemingly coming from the air itself, so I could not escape, wherever I went.“Go away,” I pleaded, twisting on my bed. “Leave me alone.” I could not speak loudly in case I woke Miss Horne, the woman who ran the institution. I was scared of Miss Horne, and with reason.

“Go away,” I pleaded, twisting on my bed. “Leave me alone.” I could not speak loudly in case I woke Miss Horne, the woman who ran the institution. I was scared of Miss Horne, and with reason.The whistling continued, relentless, never-ending, penetrating every thought. A shaft of moonshine seeped between the window-bars to light the far wall, showing the bare, white-washed plaster. I stared at that light, holding onto it as a sign of hope. Was that God showing me mercy?

The whistling continued, relentless, never-ending, penetrating every thought. A shaft of moonshine seeped between the window-bars to light the far wall, showing the bare, white-washed plaster. I stared at that light, holding onto it as a sign of hope. Was that God showing me mercy?I could hear my breathing, harsh in the room, and then something blocked the light. I gasped and turned my head toward the window.

I could hear my breathing, harsh in the room, and then something blocked the light. I gasped and turned my head toward the window.The face was peering in at me. It was hideous, with almond-shaped eyes, a slit for a mouth and small, slightly pointed ears. I stared, too petrified to scream as the thing at the window pressed against the bars. It extended its arms through the glass-less window, reaching towards me, and opened its mouth in a ghastly grin. When I saw the row of small, pointed teeth, I found my voice and screamed. I screamed and screamed until Miss Horne jerked open the door and charged inside.

The face was peering in at me. It was hideous, with almond-shaped eyes, a slit for a mouth and small, slightly pointed ears. I stared, too petrified to scream as the thing at the window pressed against the bars. It extended its arms through the glass-less window, reaching towards me, and opened its mouth in a ghastly grin. When I saw the row of small, pointed teeth, I found my voice and screamed. I screamed and screamed until Miss Horne jerked open the door and charged inside.After that, I had other reasons to scream apart from the face at the window.

After that, I had other reasons to scream apart from the face at the window.“Where did that figure come from?” I asked Agnes the morning after Jim’s initiation.

“Which figure,” Agnes asked. “Oh, you mean Auld Horsie?” She grinned. “I think the bothy boys made it a long time ago. You’d better ask Dougie; he’ll know.”

“Dougie and I are not the best of friends,” I said.

Agnes shook her head. “That’s a shame. Dougie’s the first horseman. You’d better keep in with him. He’s all right if you don’t mind his wandering hands.” She smiled, “you’ll find that if you let his hands wander where they will, he can be quite useful. That’s the trick with Dougie.” She looked down at herself and sighed. “Mind you; he’s been less keen on me since I fell pregnant.”

I had no intention of keeping in with Dougie or allowing his hands to wander anywhere near me, so the mystery of Auld Horsie would have to remain unsolved. Part of me wished to revisit the Muckle Barn to see the figure again, while another part warned me to keep well clear. There was something bad there, some old evil, and the terrible memory from my past worried me. Had that only been a dream? Or was it genuine? Until last night, I had forgotten that occurrence; I must have buried it along with so many other unpleasant memories.

* * *

I heard the shout when I was in the byre, milking the cattle. It was not a roar of pain, nor a greeting to a friend; instead, it was a shout of surprise. My inquisitive nature made me wonder what had happened, so I listened intently for any other noise. When the cow I was milking sensed my distraction and stirred under my hands, I calmed her down with soft words and emptied her udders before striding to the entrance to the byre.

My other cows complained when I left, so I soothed them with a promise to return.

“It’s all right, ladies,” I said. “I won’t be long.” I liked my cattle; they were warm, inoffensive creatures, large, slow, and affectionate.

The byre was at the edge of the steading, handily placed to receive the cattle from the fields, and that meant I had an open view over the farmland to the north. At this time of year, the horsemen were busily ploughing in the stubble left from the year’s grain crop, each man with his two-horse plough.

Andrew was two fields away, near to the old ruin, staring at something on the ground and gesticulating to Jim and Dougie, both of whom had left their teams to hurry towards him. As a newcomer to the farm, I knew better than to interfere. I only watched and listened, trying to catch the men’s conversation as the wind drifted snatches towards me.

“It’s a skeleton,” Andrew said.

“What kind of a skeleton?” Jim asked, vaulting over the intervening dyke as if it were nothing. He seemed none the worse for his ordeal of a few nights’ ago.

“A man, I think,” Andrew said, and then I saw Mrs Lunan striding from the farmhouse, and I returned to my charge. Whatever Andrew had discovered, the farm’s work had to continue, we had to milk the cows, and everything else must wait. If Andrew had unearthed a skeleton, then there was nothing I could do to help, and my curiosity would have to remain unsatisfied. All the same, I wondered about the incident until midday, when I brought the men their midday meal and asked what had happened.

Andrew looked up from his oatcake and cheese. “It was an old skeleton,” he said, “probably somebody who stumbled into the Moss before it was drained.” He shook his head. “I told Mr Lunan, and he’ll tell the police, I suppose.”

Young Peter had hurried across from the steading to join us in the fields, for he attached himself to the men whenever he could. “Maybe Heather Jock murdered somebody and buried him in the field,” he said, hopefully.

Andrew shook his head. “It was an old body. I was deep-ploughing, so the bones were well underground.”

“Maybe Heather Jock buried him deep.” Peter held onto his theory, with a child’s love of drama and gore.

Dougie shook his head. “Ah, Heather Jock, the man who ate the boiled ham raw. No, it will be Old Hangie,” he said, looking at me and hoping to shock.

I asked the expected question. “Who was Old Hangie?”

Dougie smiled. “About a hundred and fifty years ago, before the King’s Moss was properly drained, Kingsinch was even more isolated than now.” Dougie had a deep voice and a captivating way of telling a story so that all the men stopped to listen. “Nobody wanted to live here, because the moss was dangerous, and there were stories of strange things happening.”

“What strange things?” I asked as my curiosity overcame my dislike of Dougie.

Dougie glanced at the horsemen before he replied. When his smile dropped a little, I wondered if that was part of his act, or if he was hiding the truth behind the banal exterior. “Kingsinch can be an unchancy place,” Dougie said and continued with his story.

“About 1600, Kingsinch suited one man very well. That man was Old Hangie, the executioner of Strathmore. He was the fellow who had to hang the local murderers and thieves and whip the transgressors through the streets. He was not well-liked, as you can imagine, Ellen.” Dougie looked directly at me.

“I can imagine,” I agreed. Dougie did have attractive eyes, I allowed. I could nearly understand how some women fell under his spell.

Dougie smiled once more. “What made it worse was that Old Hangie enjoyed his job. He sang a little song as he hanged folk and laughed as he laid on the lash.”

“Not a nice fellow,” I said.

“No,” Dougie agreed. “Then one day, the court condemned a child, a little boy, for stealing food for its mother. The Strathmore people were in an uproar, demanding that the authorities free the boy, but the judge was a local landowner, to whom possessions were more important than human life. Anyway, Old Hangie had the job of executing the child. He sang as the fastened the noose around the greeting boy’s neck and continued to sing as the boy slowly strangled.”

I pictured the scene, already hating the landowner and the laughing, singing hangman. Was it my imagination, or could I hear a drift of song now, rising from the drained Moss, where the fields stretched before us?

“After the hanging, it was the hangman’s prerogative to take the executed man’s clothes, to sell them for profit. Old Hangie stripped the bairn and left the child at the foot of the gallows. The poor bairn was stark to the world for the sake of a few pennies. Then Old Hangie came home to Kingsinch, singing his little song.” Dougie paused for dramatic effect. “And he was never seen again.”

“What happened to him?” Peter asked.

Dougie pointed to the skeleton that lay, white and lonely, in the lee of the dyke. “Maybe that’s him there. We don’t know.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Some say that the Sidh came down from the hills and took him away in judgement for his sins. Others say that the Lord sent a great bolt of lightning that frizzled him.”

The Sidh? I held onto the word without asking questions.

The Sidh? I held onto the word without asking questions.“What do you think happened, Dougie?” Peter asked.

Dougie smiled knowingly. “I think Old Hangie was a drunken fool who wandered into the Moss and drowned.” He nodded to the skeleton. “Like that one there.”

“Perhaps so,” Jim said, “but who took away his ribs?”

I had not noticed that two of the skeleton’s ribs were missing until Jim pointed it out. “How strange,” I said.

“Kingsinch is a strange place,” Dougie deepened his voice in an attempt to intimidate me.

“And with some strange people,” I said, knowing that none of them was as strange as I was.

Although Peter laughed at my words, I still heard the music drift across the fields, and I wondered if the skeleton had belonged to Auld Hangie, and who had taken his ribs, and why.

Somehow, I knew that everything tied together, and soon I would find the answer to the questions that had plagued me all my life. I shivered then as if somebody had walked across my grave, and I wondered if I wanted to know the truth. Perhaps I was better to remain in ignorance.

But who or what were the Sidh?

But who or what were the Sidh?