Drifting on vibrating wings, a whaup called, the sound enhancing the feeling of desolation more profound than anything I can describe. I took a deep breath, started when I saw a pair of wild goats observing us from a ledge a hundred feet above and wished I were somewhere else. I had never felt more unsettled than I did at that moment.
"This is an uncanny place." I said.
"What do you mean?" Mary looked sharply at me.
"I did not like Tigh-na-Beiste." I said. "And this place," I hesitated, "there"s something very wrong here."
"I like it here," Mary said. "I belong here."
"I"m not sure that I do." I habitually sought out the wild places. I preferred them to urban centres where I was a stranger among groups of friends. In the desolation of the hills, nobody cares about a solitary walker ye
