Scarlet Vamporium: Vamporium #2 (2 page)

Dingles provide privacy and solitude, their bases subdued with gorse and liverwort which morph to scrub closer to our enclave.

He fits this landscape perfectly. Rugged but enticing, untamed yet fascinating. Just in this quick survey I can see trails etching scars through grass hedgehogs, leading into the surrounding trees. They beckon with adventure and memories of magical tales where the weald hold mysteries and ancient secrets.

“So where did ye come from?”

“I was on holiday in South Africa but  my uncle lost his cool with me, so here I am.”

“It must feel cold here tae ye then?”

“It's a bit of a shock but I quite like it,” I nod, venturing closer to the birch on my left, its base wearing a thick bright green and red blanket of haircap moss. Stuck up the trunk is a kind of black growth looking like upside down stepping stones.

“That's tinder fungus. Ye can tell when its fruiting because it turns from gray tae black and wet,” he explains.

“Ew,” I step back, not wanting to touch it.

Clasping my arm to get my attention, he gestures to the branches crisscrossing over our heads, “Never walk just looking at the ground. If yer really lucky ye might see a wildcat or marten overhead.”

Looking up, the chaffinch chatter sprinkles over us like fairy blessings. It's magical; more portents of goodwill. The intoxicating scent of wet bark, decomposing leaves, and sprite-breath stroking up and down moss and lichen still fragrant with yesterday's rain and humidity soothe my lungs with every inhalation.

The scope and ambiance of the strath tattoos my skin, filtering excitement into my veins. It's a cloistered pocket of elemental wonder which I've stepped into. My heart tingles with the primordial heartbeat of Caledonia, and I feel like I've come home. My kind belong here.

This is the environment I've been missing. The scent of loam and water, forest wildflowers and peat, it sits like a thick cape on naked shoulders, shielding me in the green camouflage of elemental gods.

“So um, I guess this land is full of radiation then?” I give him a naughty half smile, seeing if he can take his own medicine.

Scowling, he draws both sandy eyebrows together, highlighting the midnight crescents circling his thundercloud eyes. “Naw. Why in the world would ye think that?”

“Because you're built like you eat plutonium for breakfast.”

Laughing indulgently, he flicks hair behind his shoulder, “It's called oats lass. We can't all be fey dainty creatures like you.”

He gives me an enigmatic stare before touching my elbow and leading me towards where his gear waits.

“What's with the look?” I ask, inhaling the heady aroma from the dark pink blooms on the ladies tresses, and river misted glittering woodmoss.

I'm captivated staring upstream at big boulders draped in cloaks of velvet green while crystalline fluid gurgles between them.

“I thought mebbe ye were sidhe when I first saw ye.”

Pulling my curious gaze off the wind combed scenery, I look back up into his eyes. His guile is enchanting. His face is like an open palm waiting for a Gypsy to run her fingers down his fate line.

“What's shee?” I ask, confused.

“It's the gaelic word fer the faeries. We call them the sidhe, and although ye pronounce it
shee
it isnae spelled that way.”

Arching my eyebrows, I'm tempted to laugh. “You thought I was a fairy?”

“Aye, well look at ye, all dressed up like Morgan. And well...” He trails off, looking embarrassed by his spontaneous confession.

“I'm five foot nine, trust me, you're tall by anyone's standards,” I argue.

Fairy? I could be confused with many things, but fairy isn't one of them.

He gives me a gentle smile, it softens his eyes into dewy moor mist, “I didnae mean it tae be an insult. They're well known fer their beauty, an' they're not the way the movies make them look. They're tall too, they look human, just exceptionally attractive.”

This time he hits the bulls-eye and I get that awful sensation of heat rash chaffing my neck and cheeks.

“Right,” I smirk, ducking my face behind my hair and returning my focus to our cloistered surroundings.

He thinks I'm attractive!

“So dae ye like fishin'?” he says, retrieving his rod and reeling in the line.

“Um, never done it,” I confess.

His glance is incredulous, and I dare say I'm enjoying feeling tiny for a change. I'm taller than most girls, but Doug makes me feel like a shamrock elf.

“I'll haev'ta show ye then,” he smiles, stepping behind me and engulfing me bodily between his arms, planting the cork handled rod between my fingers.

Wrapping his hands around mine he forces me to lift the rod up, flick it forward, and watch the line unravel like a spiderweb looping to a new location.

His fingers firmly grip mine and I'm immediately overwhelmed with the sharp spruce scent of his cologne. Although it's probably deodorant, either way it matches this majestic dell perfectly.

“What are we fishing?” I ask, scrambling for equilibrium.

“Brown trout. They're mostly wee but they'll do fer smokin',” he explains.

What?

“Um, how the heck do you smoke fish?”

I have all sorts of looney images littering my thoughts. I would imagine it would have to be really dry before you can smoke it. Who wants to smoke fish? I think cigars stink enough, ground up fish must stench something putrid.

Releasing my hands he steps back to my side, gesturing enthusiastically, “I'm masterin' the technique at the moment.  That's why I dinnae mind catching wee fish fer experimentin'. I have a proper wooden box, and it looks a wee bit like a postbox with a slot at the back. Ye hang the fish inside on hooks and make a smolderin' hickory' fire beneath them. It's the same way they used tae make beef jerky in the olden days. Och, it tastes really good when ye get the smokin' just right, and it cooks a treat too cos the smoke partly preserves the fish fer ye. It makes the meat salmon pink. Serve that with a decent sherry sauce and yer smitten.”

Oh!
That
kind of smoking. Don't I just feel a total fool.

The line twitches in my hands and I look at him with wide alarmed eyes. “Help!”

“It willnae put up much of a fight. Just wind the little handle there on the side.” Putting a companionable hand on my shoulder, he watches the process, “Ye can do this Ellindt, I ha'e total faith in ye.”

I'm furiously wheeling the handle, pulling the line closer until I have a gorgeous black spotted little fishy hanging in front of me.

I'm so excited I swing around and hug him, “Oh my gosh, I totally freaking did it!”

He stiffens into a freeze and it ruins my jubilation in an instant. Stepping back, now awkward, I swing the line between us, dangling the trout. It's a poor bid to quell the tension which flared up in our easy tranquility.

He holds my gaze for a long ten seconds, his slate irises clouding with something intangible. His eyes are as inclement as the weather, flashing from congenial to darkly moody. He's a hard one to read.

He breaks the spell, taking the fish off the line for me and placing it into the waiting basket on the ground, saying, “Yer one of the few people on earth who can say they got tae fish in the Coe. It's forbidden. A few folk let ye fish on private land, and ye cannae catch in a stream this narrow unless there's been a really good downpour the day before. Ma mate Gordon, he owns this land, well his family dae, and he lets me fish occasionally, with permission ye ken. Usually ye would fish fer trout with a fly fishin' rod, but I wasnae in the mood tae fanny about. I just wanted tae get in and get out, ye know?”

Tilting my head, I watch him.

Wiping his hands on his knees where he crouches, he stares at me levelly, his eyes wide and the hold unwavering.

“So you were in a mood and wanted to be alone, and then I came along and ruined it for you?” I say.

Then why be all friendly? Why not just say
I want to be alone  - go away you nosy tourist
.

“I dinnae mean it like that.” He stands in one fluid movement and it is almost aggressive. “I'm done fishin', dae ye want tae take a stroll? There's a fine view down intae the glen not far from here.”

I give him a nod, choosing silence, really wanting to take another peek at the little fish I caught.

He gives me an apologetic smile and hands me the basket, “Would ye mind carrying that fer a sec? I just have tae put ma shirt back on.”

Taking the handle from him I immediately open the lid and stare inside at my fish the sheeny hue of a champagne-pearl. He's so pretty it seems a shame to eat him.

I wonder how you tell which are boys and which are girls?

He yanks a navy t-shirt over his head and picks up the rod and gadgets that come with it. Without asking he retrieves the basket from me and hooks the strap on his shoulder, nudging his head, “This way.”

As he does it his hair threads across his face, sticking to barely visible fair stubble.

I wonder how old he is?

Nodding with a small smile I step into line behind him on the narrow woodland path, watching his feet as they compact henna-dark decomposing mulch which scents the forest with moist earthy spice. Holding my skirt up off the ground I glance up often; I don't want to miss a thing. Everything about Scotland feels like an adventure. He calls fishing forbidden, but this entire enclave feels forbidden, as if I've stumbled on a secluded secret.

He has a long stride, covering ground quietly and quickly, and I'm distracted by the blunt ends to his hair where it hangs below his shoulder blades. His t-shirt is so snug I can still see every muscle in his back flexing while he walks.

I'm so busy daydreaming at the sight that I almost bump into him when he stops abruptly. Immediately he drops onto his haunches, reaching behind him with an arm and gently pulling me down to his level.

“Shhh, dae ye see it?” he says in a low murmur.

The shadows ahead of us through the trees subtly shift, and I see what he sees. Oh it's just too cute! It's still a bit of a young one, his fur rusty-red leading to dark brown at his black hooves. He skips over a rock, flashing a bright white bum at us beneath a stubby tail.

Stooping his neck he has a nibble, glancing up with ears pricked, big innocent espresso eyes scanning his environment through long lashes.

“He's beautiful,” I whisper softly to Doug.

He squeezes my hand in answer. Just then mommy deer steps from behind a thick trunk, watching over her teenage offspring.

My heart melts all the way to my toes when a squirrel scuttles across a fallen log, halfway between us and the deer. He's so darling with his bristly bushy tail that reaches up beyond his ears. He sits back on his hind legs, lifting up, sniffing the air. His little nose twitches something fierce while he absently gives his fluffy white chest and tummy a scratch.

His movement disturbs the deer and they hop away, but little squirrel man looks directly at us and then scarpers quickly, racing up a tree to get far away from us lurkers.

My limbs are weak with awe. I've never been totally in nature like this, I've been a city girl my whole life. This is beyond my hopes for dawdling through the forest to entertain myself on my first lonesome morning here.

Yet here I am, I've caught a brown trout which is not brown at all, I've seen roe-deer, and the cutest red squirrel ever. I feel like I fell into a Disney movie.

Slowly, silently, Doug swivels on the balls of his feet to smile widely at me. His joy is as obvious as mine.

For no reason whatsoever my eyes sting with tears. The moment I just witnessed is affecting me emotionally now.

“You must love it here,” I whisper.

He squeezes my hand again and finally lets it go, “Aye, there's nae doubt about that.”

“It's fabulous,” I mumble, my voice thickening and choking me. The tears win, slipping down my right cheek.

He thumbs it away as if he has been in this situation often. Giving me an understanding smile his full lips compress just the once, his deep gray eyes flicking to charcoal intensity. “It's our duty tae keep them safe. There are some places in this world where mankind has nae right tae be interferin'.” He gestures to the forest cloaking us, “This is one of those places. Here we are the visitor and we must nae take more than we absolutely need or the next generation cannae have this experience.”

“They're both so ginger and rusty.” It's just an observation.

He laughs, soft and low, it's intimate, “Och aye. In Celtic lore the color of red on any creature, animal or human, it means they hail from the other side. They belong tae the faeries, they walk between realms. Sometimes the faeries adopt animal shapes as a disguise, but ye know them because they always ha'e red fur. Only a dead heart would kill a creature with red fur, and only an eejit would anger the fey.”

He shakes his head, losing the mood we just shared, crushing the awestruck moment, “Everything I catch goes tae feedin' my family. I caught only three fish, one fer each of us, and I ha'e permission tae fish in that burn. It's our duty tae have the survival skills, it's in our blood ye ken. But it makes me seethin' livid when tourists barge in tae take from this land. There's somethin' hallowed about Glencoe, I cannae explain it...”

His jaw tenses and the muscles flex, his bitter anger evident.

“I promise I won't hunt here.”
I might hunt you though.

I'm worried he's accusing me of something just because I'm a foreigner. “What's a burn?”

“Och, I dinnae mean you,” he instantly smiles, and his entire expression clears. “And a burn is a wee stream.”

He gives me a look that plainly wonders if I'm strange. Maybe I am because I thought burn was heat induced pain, not cool clean stream.

Wow, to have a face that expressive, it's literally like the relief when you get to bask in a ray of sunshine breaking through on a cloudy day.

He laces his fingers through mine, pulling me up with him, “Come on, we cannae sit here all day, we're disturbin' the beasties.”

He starts walking along the trail again, this time keeping my hand cherished in his.