Read Flower of Scotland 2 Online
Authors: William Meikle
Flower of Scotland 2 (6 page)
"That man needs close watching," Pete said, unwilling to voice his suspicions completely. He needn't have been so circumspect.
"Aye. That's one way tae put it," the barman said, smiling. "Had ye not wondered why he was the only one free tae play ye? Naebody else will go round wi' him. Never mind - ye'll ken better in the morning."
Tomorrow. Pete hadn't thought about that yet. Another round, another chance of humiliation. He tried to change the subject.
"What did he call the graveyard? Old Jack's hollow?"
The barman smiled again, but Pete saw something in his eyes, something that looked like fear, and he took a long time to reply.
"Aye. That's right. Auld Jack was a regular here a few years back. Then, in the last round o' the club championship, needing a par tae win the trophy, he knocked his ball against the graveyard wall. He took three shots tae get it out o' the grass, and it proved too much for him. He had a heart attack and died - right next tae the graveyard. And your friend John there won the trophy."
Suddenly Pete had the shivers again, a cold draft which crept up his back and raised the hairs at the nape of his neck.
"You had better give me another double," he said, "I think I'm going to need some stiffening to get me back out there tomorrow."
One thing led to another and it was several hours later before Pete weaved his way back to his hotel and fell into a fitful, uneasy, sleep.
The night served its purpose in one respect - by the time he woke the chill had finally gone, to be replaced by a hangover. Two cups of coffee shifted the bulk of it, and by the time he got to the first tee he felt almost human again.
The sun was shining from a clear blue sky and there was only a slight breeze. Not even the ever-present smirk on John's face as he approached could dampen Pete's mood. He felt good. Today was going to be much better.
He was proved right as early as the first green. He had left himself with a long, up-hill putt for a birdie - more than thirty feet, but as soon as he hit it he knew it was in. He allowed himself a smile as the ball rattled into the cup.
He managed to match John hole for hole, and was even thinking that he might take a few off the other man, when John spoke for the first time since that first hole birdie.
"Say Pete. How about making it more interesting? Fifty pounds on the match?
Pete didn't even think about it.
"Make it seventy and you've got yourself a deal," he said.
"OK," John said. Pete thought that the other man had answered suspiciously quickly, and was not surprised to see that the smirk was back. He was going to have to watch his opponent very carefully.
They shared the next five holes, and Pete had the honour on the fifteenth. He stood over the ball, looked down the fairway, and froze. There, in the distance, only partially obscured by a fine mist, sat the graveyard. The chill was back and he hurried the shot, hooking it as far as the fifth fairway.
He was lucky - he found a good lie and managed to half the hole in par, but all he could think of was the eighteenth tee, wondering if he was even going to be able to play a shot.
He only managed to share the next two holes by sheer luck - some of his nervousness seemed to have rubbed off on John and they halved them both in bogey fives.
Pete had the honour on the last. He was all square, scores even with just this one to play, but his legs had gone weak on him and he had to lean on his three iron to stop himself from falling. Lining the shot up was the toughest thing he ever did and as soon as he hit the ball he knew it was all wrong. His heart sank as he watched it fall and nestle, hidden in the long grass next to the graveyard wall.
"May as well give up now," he thought. "No way am I going to play that one."
He didn't really pay attention to John's shot - he didn't even look, but he was surprised to hear John swear and turned just in time to see the ball overshoot the green and bounce into the bunker at the back.
Maybe he still had a chance - if only he could bring himself to get close to that graveyard.
He bought some time by letting John play first - the bunker was slightly further away from the pin anyway. He saw the other man jump up and down, watched him swing, and saw some sand fly.
"Just practising" John shouted.
"The bastard fluffed it," Pete thought, but he didn't say anything. John swung again, and his ball popped out of the bunker, sweet as a nut, and rolled up to five feet from the hole.
Pete strode over to the graveyard, adrenaline pumping, determined not to lose, but when he saw his ball his heart sank - it was lying amongst thick, tufty, grass and he reckoned he'd need at least two shots just to move it.
He looked back towards the hole and John was standing by the pin.
"Shall I take it out?" he said, and the smirk was back full force.
"Yeah. You do that," Pete said, and bent over his shot.
And that's when it happened.
The chill came back. But this time it was more - it was as if someone had poured ice into his veins. The nine iron shook in his hands. Then his spine stiffened, as if someone had pushed him upright, pushed him from inside. He watched his hands draw back, saw the clubface go through the ball, and felt it hit the sweet spot. But none of it was him - something, or someone, was working through him. He could only watch as the ball flew straight and true, dropping, as soft as a feather, only six inches from the hole.
John looked straight at him, stunned, and Pete felt the corners of his mouth rise into a teeth-baring smile.
The colour drained from his opponent's face, and his jaw dropped a clear inch.
Pete stayed where he was as John stood over his putt - he could see that the man's heart wasn't in it and the ball sailed wide to finish nearly two feet past the hole. John stomped off the green without looking back and headed for the clubhouse. It was only then that Pete could move.
Something left him - he felt it pass through and out and the cold left, just like that. He stumbled forward, away from the wall and turned around, just in time to see a grey mist fade into a nearby headstone.
He didn't have to look at the inscription to know what the name on it would be.
Old Jack had finally got his par.
~-oO0Oo-~
"Are we there yet?"
George Watkins sighed and turned to look downstream. His son Bobby was thirty yards behind, and dawdling.
I guess we’re just too far from the TV and the video games for his liking.
"Nearly," George shouted. "It’s just round the next bend."
"You said that ten minutes ago," Bobby wailed.
This trip up the Monongahela was supposed to be character building, a chance for George to bond with a kid he was rapidly losing to the enticements of the internet and games machines. He’d thought that a fishing trip would bring them closer together.
So far it wasn’t going according to plan.
"Come on son," he said. "There’s a big trout up there just waiting to be our supper."
The boy kicked at some pebbles, sending them scuttling into the river. He never raised his head.
But at least he’s following.
When they turned the corner they saw the creek spread out before them, with the rock shelf and ruined cabins at the far end.
"Why did people live out this far?" Bobby asked.
George took this as an encouraging sign. At this stage even a simple question was progress.
"Well there’s mine workings all over these hills and..."
But the boy seemed to have lost interest already. He fished a cell-phone from his pocket and put his head down again.
George sighed and set his sights on the rock shelf, their campsite for the night. Ten minutes later they pitched camp in the ruins of the Taylor and Nichols cabins. Rather, George got the tent up and started in on collecting firewood for later, while the boy moped around trying to get a signal on his phone. George resisted the urge to bawl the kid out, trusting that the lure of fishing would grab as quickly as it had taken hold of George himself at the same age.
Wait until we get that first nibble of the day, George thought.
He’ll come round soon enough.
But even after they’d set up on the riverbank and George had caught a fine two pounder for supper, still Bobby remained resolutely unimpressed.
"If you don’t cheer up, I’ll feed you to the Ogua," George said.
The boy’s head finally rose from where he’d been staring at the phone, even though it was currently switched off.
"What’s an Ogua?"
George smiled inwardly.
I’ve caught him.
"It lives hereabouts," he said quietly. "The Iroquois say it’s as big as a bear, with a hard shell like a turtle and a thick tail that can break a man’s back. By day it stays under the water. But at night it comes out, looking for deer... or anything else it can drag away to its den."
Bobby’s eyes had gone big and wide open.
Time to reel him in.
George waved in the direction of the ruined cabins.
"That’s why the folks who built these here dwellings had to leave. The Ogua got all their cattle... and they were afeared it was coming for them next."
George looked out over the still river, remembering how his own father had told him the story, in this same spot. He cast the line, sending the weighted lure over to the far bank where it landed with a soft plop.
He was remembering his own father’s story, and the insistence, the sincerity with which he’d told it. The Ogua might, or not be real, but one thing was for sure, George’s old man had believed it, and had made George believe it, for a time at least.
Now if I could only get through to Bobby. Maybe we could both believe.
"Its den is about there I reckon," he said. "At least that’s where your Great-Granddaddy saw it, back in Fifty Five. It gave him such a fright his hair went white. And do you know..."
He never got a chance to finish. The boy’s cell phone rang, the blast of tinny music breaking any spell George had woven.
"Yay. I got a signal," Bobby shouted, happier than George had seen him all day.
He was on the phone all the time while George got a fire going and cooked the trout. He only put it down to eat. George tried to interest him in the beauty of the sunset, but the boy sat there, head down, thumbs working frantically, lost in a world George would never understand.
He did get the lad to switch it off as they got into their sleeping bags. Bobby wanted to stay in the tent. George preferred to lie out in the open, like he had in his youth. When he woke to take a leak around midnight he saw a tell-tale blue glow from the phone’s display just inside the tent. By then he was too dispirited to get into an argument about it.
First thing in the morning, we’re outa here. It’ll be best for both of us.
After that, sleep wouldn’t come. He lay on his back, staring up at the Milky Way and remembering nights such as this with his own father; the anticipation of the fishing to come the next day, the feeling of closeness with his old man he feared he’d never achieve with Bobby.
It was nearly two o’clock when he rolled onto his side. There was still a faint glow from the tent where the boy lay.
Enough is enough.
He moved to climb out of his bag.
And that’s when he heard it... a soft slump as something pulled itself out of the water, barely five yards from where he lay.
Bobby!
He rolled, still coccooned in the bag, ignoring the stones and twigs that poked and prodded even through the nylon, making for the boy’s tent.
"Bobby!" he said in a whisper that wanted to be a shout. "Get out of there."
Something big moved across the ground towards him, twigs snapping and pebbles tumbling with small splashes into the river. Above that there was breathing, a liquid gurgle.
"Bobby!" he said, louder this time.
He shucked off the sleeping bag. It was grabbed from his grasp and whisked away. He heard the sound, very close now, as whatever had come out of the water tore the nylon with loud rips.
A bobbing blue light moved somewhere to his left, heading into the woods, but
George had no time to think. He headed for the other tent and almost pulled it out of the pegs as he threw the flap open.
"Bobby!"
The tent was empty. The boy had indeed heard him and slipped away. George looked around, hoping to catch another glimpse of the bobbing blue light that would show him where to find the lad.
"Over here," a small voice shouted from among the cabin ruins. George could indeed just make out the faint blue glow of the phone.
He felt the air move over his head and something large and heavy swished, just missing him. He tried not to remember the stories, of how the Ogua could break a man’s back with its tail. He headed in a stumbling run for Bobby’s location.
The Ogua followed him. It tore the tent to shreds, the ripping loud in the quiet night. The moist breathing got louder and there was a clicking noise that George realised could only be claws... claws scratching on stone. He made out a shape in the darkness. The thing that followed him across the campground was tall, almost as big as George himself and twice as broad. A long tail, eight feet of more, stretched out behind it, swishing from side to side, balancing the creature’s stumbling forward steps on its stubby rear legs. It closely resembled a dinosaur from the old movies, but its back was protected by a thick carapace, glimmering in the moonlight like oil on tortoiseshell. The eyes were the worst -- almost perfect circles, like small saucers, and milky white like fine porcelain. They tracked George’s every movement as the Ogua came forward, hands bearing long knife-like claws clenching and unclenching, anticipating the rending of flesh.
George reached the cabin ruins just ahead of the Ogua. There was no sign of the boy as he skipped across fallen timbers and rocks.
"Bobby!"
"Over here," a voice called. The dim blue light showed at the edge of the forest.
"Stay there, I’m coming," he called back and ran faster.
The Ogua followed, tossing timber aside as if it were matchsticks. George fled into the woods. The boy had already moved on, the blue glow bobbing as it moved further into the trees.
"This way," Bobby called.
"Wait," George replied, but all too soon the blue glow was lost in the thickets. He had no choice but to follow. And as he went after Bobby, so the Ogua pursued him. He ran, almost blind in the dark, branches and thorns tugging and tearing at clothes and skin. The Ogua crashed through everything, breathing louder now, panting like a hot dog. Something pulled at George’s ankle and he let out a yelp, but it was just a twig, He tore away from it, leaving the lower half of a pant leg behind.
"Over here," he heard Bobby shout above the noise of the Ogua. "Quick. This way."
He ran, ignoring the hot blood flowing from numerous small scrapes and tears. Finally he saw the faint blue glow ahead of him. It was still, unmoving.
"Jump," Bobby shouted. "Jump now!"
He didn’t think. He leapt, aware of crossing a dark void, landing hard and toppling sideward. A small hand steadied him.
"Run," George shouted, making a grab for the boy. "It’s nearly here."
The Ogua crashed through the trees, white eyes shining almost silver in a thin wash of moonlight. George turned to run again, but Bobby put a hand on his shoulder.
"It’s okay."
The Ogua came on hard... then lost its footing and fell away, the liquid breathing turning to a screech as it tumbled into a dark hole, scrambling frantically. It kept trying to reach George, tail thrashing wildly, but all it managed to do was send timber and debris falling, hastening its descent.
It dropped away into darkness, the screech fading.
Silence fell.
George leaned over slowly and looked down into an old mineshaft, the walls now only partially shored. Below there was only deep quiet blackness.
Bobby came and stood beside him, a big grin on his face.
"How did you do that?" George asked.
Bobby held up the phone.
"Research and GPS," he said, smiling.
George looked at the phone, seeing it through the boy’s eyes for the first time.
"It looks like I need someone to bring me up to date with all this new-fangled stuff. Want a job?"
Bobby smiled.
"Okay, Dad."
Hand in hand, father and son headed back to what was left of their camp.
George realised something else.
"You used me as bait didn’t you?"
Bobby looked sheepish.
"I saw it in a game once. It worked that time as well."
George ruffled the boy’s hair.
"Maybe fishing is your thing after all."
