A Ghost Story for winter - The Witch O' Ward Hill
The Witch O' Ward Hill
by Babs Stevenson
If the skuas dinnae get you, the carlin will.
'Cheers'. Edward set the pint in front of the aged local.
'Slainte', the man grunted.
Edward took his seat and gulped a mouthful of the barman's best. He was prepared to nod in awe at the farmer's stories from an island childhood, but only as long as his pint lasted. Outside the weather was changing. The sun was bobbing through the clouds like a coy schoolgirl flirting behind her geography jotter. Sunshine, even in June, was rarer than spotting a great crested albatross on the islands, or so it seemed to Edward. Its arrival was not to be spurned.
It was day four of Edward's week long break and so far he'd spent it propping up ill-lit bars or trying to warm his soaking feet at fires. He'd wasted enough time listening to tales, he wanted to be out enjoying the hills. Despite the strategic clearing of his throat at appropriate intervals, there was no sign of an end to the old boys well-worn narrative.
'It wid be twa hunner years syne,' the local recalled as he licked the froth from his cracked lips. 'Hard times, bit the folks survived. Farming and fishing. We had a bonny fleet back then. Traders stopped on their way tae the Hudson Bay, hording their vessels wi' whatever took their fancy. Monie a lad joined ship, lured by drunken promises o' sea monsters, grizzly bears and ill gotten wealth in the New World. Promises indeed, bit for the lassies there wis nothing but gutting fish and raising bairns.
The farmer stopped to wet his throat. Taking his chance, Edward stood up to leave.
'I'll nae say no tae anither.' The farmer offered his glass. Edward yanked it from his hand.
'A wis telling you aboot Nancy Tait,' the old man continued when Edward returned with his refill.
'Nancy Tait?'
'Aye, are ye listenin' or no? She wis ha'en nane o' fish an' bairns. A bright lass, or so it's said. The maister wrote her name in the register on her first day at school an' she ne'er went back. She was needed at home to help her mither wi' the younger bairns and later to earn money gutting herring. Her faither wis a fisherman, often as no at sea wi' her uncles and brothers. No-one was sure if or when their boat would mak it hame. The silver darlings charged a pretty price.
Sauntering doon Dundas Street, her apron steaming of fish and with two siblings in tow, Nancy would look out to sea and dream o' a better life. Dreaming was a' she cid dae. Even if she sheared her locks and stuffed a sock doon her brothers breeches, she widnae be a lad. There wis nae escape to the New World for her. She was promised to Johnnie Sinclair, a steady lad in line for twenty acres when his father succumbed to the bottle, bit Nancy wis never to wed. Every day her eyes wid tak a gander across the water and oot tae yon hills.'
The man pointed a shaky finger and Edward duly looked out of the window to the hills, wishing he too could escape.
'Nancy had ne'er been aff her island. She'd only been oot o' her toon ance,' the man continued. 'The hills put a spell on her, but aye, I can see you're anxious tae be aff.'
'No, please go on. Edward covered his watch with his sleeve.
'One moonlicht nicht, at the witching hoor, Nancy got up, leaving her mother and the bairns asleep. She stowed on board a boat, shivering beneath a tarpaulin til dawn when it took the tide. When they landed here, the crew unloaded the supplies and she wis aff, running like the deil tae reach the hills.'
Edward supped his beer. He wasn't listening to Nancy's dash for freedom. His eyes were fixed on the hills. He had no time for faeries in the glen. He wanted to climb.
'That's no the end o' it.' The man's eyes widened. A dribble of saliva congealed on his beard. 'Once Nancy got to the top she could see ower tae her toon, her hoose. She could see the folks starting to stir and she wisnae gan back. Nae tae dote after John Sinclair an' a brood of weans. She wid live on the hill, surviving on birds eggs, wild rabbits and berries. She wid sleep on the heather, kept by the rocks. And aye, she did weel enough, bit after a while she craved human company.'
The storyteller lowered his voice and leaned towards Edward. The nicotine on his breath choked the student.
'Mony a bonny nicht, a person has gone missing in the mist up there.'
The hills were alive with sunshine and Edward found the farmer's story impossible to believe.
'Missing? Up there?
'The first was Maggie Wilson, a cantankerous widow nobody much cared for, bit you'll hae heard of Tully.'
'Tully?'
'A simple lad from the mainland who came ower here for the fishing. He was found years later dressed in rabbit skins and sucking a tern egg.'
Fearful that he would have to listen to further tales of Tully, Edward nodded.
'Yes, that Tully. I've heard of him.'
'In ma ane time there wis Tam the shepherd's lad. Big Tam, gone to join Nancy's coven on Ward Hill. That's hoo the paper ran it. That's when Nancy became a witch. I remember Tam at school...'
'Big Tam, yes,' Edward said.
In contrast to the gloom in the pub, the sun was streaming over the hill, granting no quarter for a witch and her ghostly crew. As the farmer fumbled in his pocket for a moth-eaten handkerchief Edward glanced at his watch. It was well past one. The last ferry back left at six. He didn't relish spending a night on this one-horse island. He totted up the logistics of his trip while the mysteries of Big Tam floated in his left ear and out his right without reaching his brain. The farmer coughed into his handkerchief then nudged his empty beer glass towards Edward.
'That was a rare story,' Edward said, 'But I need to be off.'
'Ye huvnae done yer drink.'
Edward rose, tripping over the leg of his stool as he stumbled towards the door. He gave the man a wave. The farmer was staring wistfully at his glass, hoping by some miracle it would refill. Halfway down the path Edward greeted a couple of middle-aged walkers striding towards the inn. Edward smiled. The old man's prayers were answered. New prey for him to trap.
Edward reached the small loch at the base of the hill in good time and eyed the ascent. The summit was clear and he reckoned another forty five minutes would see him perched on the top snapping atmospheric panoramas of the islands. He took a swig from his water bottle. The breeding season for the migrant sea birds was underway and the great skuas and Arctic terns were prepared to defend their air space, fluttering wings and squawking. A warning dive from a tern shaved Edwards hat, reinforcing the mantra that prisoners would not be taken. It was sufficient to persuade Edward to alter his course a few hundred yards. The hill was no real challenge to someone of Edward's prop forward physique. He paused to devour a cheese sandwich and noted the dark cloud casting a shadow over the north of the island. The atmosphere was closing in and Edward doubted there would be much to photograph from the top. Still, he was determined to complete his walk if only to boast to the lads in the student union. He took an apple from his rucksack and bit into the flesh before spitting it out onto the heather. A mould encased the skin and the inside was mushy brown. He flung the apple behind him and imagined he heard it bounce off the rocks on its way down the hill.
Typical of the island weather, a wind surged up from the sea, its whistle made a mocking sound in Edwards ears. He pulled his woollen hat down and fastened the zip of his cagoule. Spots of rain fell, gathering pace as they reached Edward. They were chilly droplets for the time of year, almost hail, and the wind angled a torrent against his nose. Edward looked at his watch. It was already ten to four.
Was there time to hit the summit then clamber down and race the three miles to the ferry?
He could make out the cairn marking the top and reckoned it would take no more than ten minutes to reach it. The mist was descending, cursing anyone who dared venture onto the hill. It swept the cairn out of Edward's sight. He would have to be careful with his footing. His schedule left no leeway for a twisted ankle.
A flurry of feathers flapped above his left shoulder. Impact was aborted at zero point nine seconds, but Edward staggered back. The wind laughed. That was ridiculous. Edward was a rugby playing, science student not given to the melodramatics of arty types. The wind didn't laugh. The jeering howl came again. Likely the sound effects were being added by the irate terns, but Edward was sure he could hear spine tingling voices.
'Hungry.'
'Stay Maggie, the lad is mine.'
The rain battered Edward's chest, pushing him downhill as a sheet of lightening broke above him. In the haze the rocks and gorse bushes became cavorting figures dancing to the crack of thunder. Edward counted the seconds. The lightening was close. Had he told anyone at the inn where he was going? Would the old farmer remember him? Would the ferry wait? Could it wait if the weather deteriorated?
Too many questions. It wasn't Everest and he was no novice, but he knew he would have to give up the summit attempt and head back. Swearing, he turned, but in his haste his right boot caught on a knotted gorse root. His outstretched left foot slipped on the sodden heather and he fell forwards in a gasp of pain, to the accompanying snap of his metatarsals. He was shivering, yet sweat ran down his brow as he fended off a maternal skua and reached in his pocket for his mobile. There was no signal. Edward lay on the ground writhing. His watch had smashed in the fall, but he heard the ferry blowing its arrival in port. The voices came again.
'Mine now. Mine forever.'
Edward felt a clammy touch on his cheek. He smelt the reek of fish swirl into his nostrils and he let out a scream.
In the inn the octogenarian supped his bitter and wiped the foam from his beard with a well-practised sweep of his forearm. The crackling from the open fire added a macabre shiver to his tale. He spoke in a hushed tone, delighted by the wide pupils and gaping mouths of his audience.
'Nancy's most recent victim wis a student from Aberdeen. Twa years ago it wis noo. We had the city police up, but his body wis ne'er found. A headstrong lad, thocht he kent it a', widnae listen. He was sitting on yon same stool as yersel...'
If you would like to hear another story, visit
Comments
Post a Comment