On the Edge of Darkness

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, Havegone 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.