Whistlers Of The Dark

CHAPTER 1

THE BLACK YETT, FORFARSHIRE, SCOTLAND, SEPTEMBER 1899

Steady, lass! The driver of the dogcart soothed his horse as it pulled to the right. She’s always skittish here, the driver explained to me. She doesn’t like passing the old graveyard.

We had reached a crossroads, where the Black Yett of Sidlaw, the main road, eased off towards Perth along the foot of the Sidlaw Hills. Our much narrower track headed north, up a pass between two green heights. The driver’s old graveyard was tucked behind a moss-furred dry-stane dyke, with a scattering of gravestones at different angles, as if each was trying to escape the bondage of the soil.

Why is that? I asked. Graveyards and such places don’t normally frighten horses.

This one does, the driver said. Something scared her here a whiley back, and she’s never been happy here since.

The graveyard doesn’t look well-kept. I glanced over the wall with little interest.

No. the driver shook his head. He climbed off his perch to settle the horse, speaking gently, and lowering the beast’s head. Easy lass, I’ll lead you. Steady, now.

I remained in the back of the cart as the driver walked us past the graveyard, with its single yew tree dark green and the grass rank over the humps of neglected graves.

Why is it so unkempt? I asked.

It’s a suicides’ graveyard, the driver said shortly. He said no more until we were a hundred yards beyond the place, and he gave his horse a final caress and resumed his seat.

Are there many suicides around here? I asked as a smirr of rain slithered from the hills to wash some of the journey’s dust from us.

Too many, the driver said. It can be ill land to farm. He flicked the reins on the rump of his horse, and we moved slightly faster. The iron-shod wheels of the cart ground on the unmade road, deepening the grooves made by a thousand previous vehicles over ten centuries of use. People had inhabited this land for millennia, I knew. I could feel the history pressing in on me; I could hear the whispering voices of the long-dead and sense the slow tide of passing years.

To my northern eyes, the land was not ill-favoured. Grass and heather covered the hills, making excellent sheep country, with parks, or fields, where cattle grazed or lay together.

A colourful gypsy wagon passed us, with the driver lifting a hand in acknowledgement and a gaggle of tousle-headed children running behind. When they waved to me, I smiled and waved back.

Aye, only tinkers and gypsies use this road, my driver said. Them and men who can’t afford to farm decent soil. He shook his head. We’d be better off without these tinker vagrants.

I said nothing to that, being a bit of a vagrant myself. I watched the caravan lurch around a bend and heard the high-pitched barking of the dogs.

The hills rose on either side; not the craggy granite of my previous home, but softly smooth, specked with the white forms of hardy, black-faced sheep and redolent with patches of heather. I thought them friendly heights and hoped I had left my bitter memories behind me.

Aye, it’s a dreich day. The driver misinterpreted my thoughts, as people often do.

I nodded agreement. It’s all of that, I said, for the grey drift of rain obscured the sky and dulled the colours of the landscape. I did not mind that, for to me, rain is only another aspect of nature, and without rain, nothing would grow. I was still thinking of that lonely cemetery with the forlorn graves of men and women who lost their strength to live. I could understand them, and what had driven away all the attraction of life.

A whaup called, its cry one of the most melancholic of all bird sounds, and I saw it rise from the grass to my left. With its long, down-curving beak, the whaup was the centre of fear from the superstitious. I watched the hill-bird fly into the rain and knew the crunch of our wheels had frightened it.

Only a whaup, the driver said over his shoulder. You’ve naething to fear from a whaup.

Aye, I returned. They’ve never done me any harm. It was not the birds and beasts of the fields that frightened me; I thought and prayed again that I had left my tormentors behind in the North Country.

Please, God, let them stay up there. Don’t let them follow me to this southern land of Strathmore.

We turned around the spur of a hill, with an outcrop of heather nodding to the sky. The signboard creaked against its iron rings, wind-bucked this way and that as the driver pulled to a halt.

There you are, Miss. He gave me a sideways look. It’s a gey lonely place this.

I nodded my agreement as I surveyed the surroundings. Aye, it’s all of that.

The driver shook his head. Are you sure you want off here, now, lassie? I could take you back in a trice.

I have a position at the farm, I said.

Aye, well, maybe the reputation is exaggerated. The driver seemed reluctant to let me off his cart.

I’ve accepted the position, I said, clambering down onto the track. I’m sure it will be fine.

If you think so, Miss, the driver said. It’s a fair bit walk for you. He handed me my case, his fatherly eyes concerned.

I’m used to walking. I favoured him with a smile and paid him with the scrapings of my purse.

Well, good luck to you, Miss. The driver cracked his reins over the rump of the horse and turned it in the road-end. He lifted a hand in farewell, opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind and pulled slowly away.

I watched the dogcart jolting on the uneven road and turned my head towards the farm. The path was barely wide enough for a cart, with flat fields stretching on either side to the hills’ sweeping slopes. The name hung from a gallows-shaped cross-post at the track's side, still creaking slightly in the biting wind.

Kingsinch, it proclaimed, and yet I never saw anything less like the road to royalty in my life. I did not know which king had been unfortunate enough to venture to this farmtoun in the back of beyond, nor why he should come here.

I shrugged, king or commoner, it made no difference to me. I was here to work, not to speculate on long-forgotten royalty. Let the dead keep the dead.

From the road-end, the track seemed to disappear into the hills, with no sign of a farm-steading. I shrugged, prepared for a long walk. I lifted my bag and stepped onto the track. I say track, but it was more like a causeway, raised slightly above the fields of stubble, and seemed to sway as I walked. Shrugging off the illusion, I put my best foot foremost and stepped out for Kingsinch, with my boots sinking into the cart-ruts of the track and the wind scouring my face.

In one of the fields or parks, as we called them, a lone horseman was ploughing, with reins wrapped around his wrist and his two-horse Clydesdale team moving slowly. A trick of the wind sent the mesmeric hiss of the plough through rich soil to me, with the soft padding of the hooves on the dirt and the horseman’s muttered encouragement to his horses.

The horseman noticed me, lifted a hand in salute, and continued with his work. I waved in reply and trudged on, descending a long slope into the lower ground, with moisture gleaming from the newly turned earth and fail-dykes – dykes of turf rather than stone – separating the fields. A few hundred yards later, the track took a decided loop, with a post thrust into the ground on the left side. A lantern hung from the post, swinging madly in the increasing wind. After the dog-leg bend, the track descended steeply, yet managed to retain its height relative to the surrounding fields. I nodded, working out the lie of the land. The fields occupied a drained moss, a boggy moor, with the track built above it.

After a mile, I noticed a battered ruin of a building, or a rickle of a biggin, as we would call it in the north, crouching on a heather-knowe not far off the track. At one time it might have been important, but now it was tumbledown and forlorn with neglect, despite the stone roof that would hold out the rain. I stopped for a moment, wondering what it was and if it was related to the mysterious king who had passed this way. Perhaps it was the wind, easing from the surrounding hills, but I thought I heard somebody whistling at that building. The sound was not unpleasant, but I stopped to listen with the fear growing inside me.

Oh, God no, I said to myself. Don’t let it happen again. Don’t let it happen here as well.

I sighed with relief as a man appeared from behind the old ruin, whistling to three large black mastiffs. He gave me a glower, turned his shoulder, and stalked away, with the dogs at his heels. I moved on, with the farm steading now in sight amidst a group of gnarled trees.

I stopped to take stock of the farmtoun of Kingsinch, where I was to spend the next period of my life. The steading rose from the surrounding fields, like a mediaeval castle within its moat, yet the buildings were blunt, nearly ugly in their uncompromising functionality. Bare stone walls under sloped slate roofs, with small windows with white painted frames. The steading stood four-square against the weather, giving nothing away.

If buildings could speak, these would say, Here I am, and damn you, to the wind and rain. I could sense Kingsinch’s personality as dour, as it glowered at a pitiless world.

Well? the woman who stood at the front door was dark-haired, about thirty-five and not ill-looking. She viewed me with disfavour. Are you coming, or are you going to dawdle there all day?

I hurried forward. I am Ellen Luath, I introduced myself. The new kitchen maid.

Aye. The woman did not move as she eyed me up and down. I guessed that.

Are you Mrs Lunan? I asked.

Aye. Mrs Lunan spoke as if she grudged every word she had to release from her taut mouth. She might have been attractive if she smiled more, and men would undoubtedly have found her shape desirable.

May I come in?

Mrs Lunan shifted to the side, allowing me a grudging passage.

The farm-kitchen was as austere as the exterior of the building. A plain deal table and four wooden chairs stood on a floor of stone slabs, with a black range in one wall and a wooden worktop stretched along another. A large sink occupied half the third wall. An array of pots, pans, griddles, and other kitchen necessities hung above the worktop, gleaming in the light of the range fire. There was nothing else, no hint of refinement or comfort.

I had seen a lot worse.

This is where you’ll work, Mrs Lunan said. You’ll also help with the milking, and mucking out the byre, and feeding the bothy-lads, and washing, and anything else I require you for.

I nodded and replied, Yes, Mrs Lunan, for I had expected no less. A kitchen-maid’s life was likened to servitude with no hope of reprieve unless a fortunate marriage intervened and damned little reprieve even then.

You’ll sleep in there. Mrs Lunan jerked her thumb towards a door that led from the kitchen. Second door on the right. You’ll share with Agnes.

Yes, Mrs Lunan, I said again.

Well, what are you standing around for? Can’t you see the floor needs scrubbing? Get on with it!

Welcome to Kingsinch.

I got on with it. Depositing my bag and coat on one of the chairs, I fetched a pail, filled it from the pump outside, hitched up my skirt and knelt on the floor. Mrs Lunan threw a scrubbing-brush and a cake of hard green soap to me, watched for a minute, grunted disapprovingly, and stalked away to spread joy to another part of the steading.

I was never averse to hard work, so soon had the floor as clean as it had ever been, with the stone slabs gleaming and the cracks between free of any loose grains or other matter. Of course, I knew that scrubbing was as thankless a task as any woman’s work, for as soon as the farmer, Mr Lunan, came in from the parks, his boots would spread mud everywhere.

What are you dawdling for? Mrs Lunan asked. There are cows to be milked. They’ve been bellowing these past ten minutes!

I was not long back from the byre when I heard Mr Lunan’s heavy footsteps, and withdrew to the furthest corner of the kitchen, out of his way. Mr Lunan flung the door open and stormed inside. As I suspected, he was the man I had seen near the old ruin.

And who might you be? Mr Lunan was older than his wife, maybe in his mid-fifties, with a salt-and-pepper moustache that a walrus may have envied.

Ellen Luath, I said. I’m the new kitchen-maid. I held his eye, noting the shadows behind the iron.

Are you now? Mr Lunan said, nodding. Have you seen the mistress?

I have, Mr Lunan, I said.

Aye. He nodded again. You’re not very tall, are you?

No, Mr Lunan, I said. I had always been conscious of my lack of height, although I made up for it with a boldness of temper that stood me in good stead.

You don’t look old enough to stand the work of Kingsinch. How old are you? Mr Lunan asked next.

Older than I look, I said, for I was not willing to divulge my supposed age to him or any man.

Above twelve then, Mr Lunan said, in what may have been an attempt at humour.

Above twelve, I confirmed, and a few years more.

Mr Lunan nodded again, with a glint of humour in his eyes that showed he appreciated my reply. Spunky, are you? You might need that here. The bothy-boys can be a handful.

I have two hands, I said, one for the bothy-boys and one for myself.

Is that so? Mr Lunan slumped on a chair. Well Ellen Luath, tea would be a good idea.

I bustled to make Mr Lunan a mug of tea, hot and black, with two spoons of sugar, which he stirred with a deliberate motion and his gaze never straying from me. You have scrubbed the floor, he said.

I have.

Better finish your work, then. Mr Lunan nodded to the mud he had brought from the fields. Mrs Lunan does not like a job half-done.

After the scrubbing, Mrs Lunan had me make brose – simple oatmeal and boiling water - for the young horsemen who ploughed the fields and did most of the work, skilled and unskilled about the farm.

There are three horsemen and a halflin in the bothy. Take the brose into them, Mrs Lunan said as she watched me stir the oatmeal into the hot water. Brose was the staple food of the horsemen, the bothy-boys, in any farm steading. And don’t linger.

I knew that some horsemen could be quite rough, wild young men who boasted of their exploits to their colleagues, so I was prepared for a baptism of fire when I entered the bothy that housed the crew. A bothy was only the name for the building where the horsemen lived; it could be any sort of place deemed suitable to hold several young, unmarried men. In the case of Kingsinch, it was a long room directly above a barn.

I tapped on the door. Kitchen maid, I warned, for I had no desire to surprise the men when they may be changing their clothes.

After a few seconds, a voice sounded. Come awa’ in!

When I pushed the door open, I stepped into a room with two skylights and a plentiful supply of fresh air from missing slates. Four solid beds stretched along the wall, with a battered table and chairs in the centre of the room, and a fireplace at the further gable. I took in the sparse furnishings with a glance and gave more attention to the four occupants of the room.

One man was older, maybe in his early thirties, a long-faced, dark-haired loon with a ready smile. He stood by the fire, watching everything I did. The second man was younger, in his mid-twenties, with serious brown eyes that studied me. He sat on a bed, taking off his boots. A third man lay on the bed. He was auburn-haired, freckled, and grinned to me, raising a hand in welcome. The fourth person was only a boy with haunted eyes.

I knew without asking what their positions were in the farmtoun, as we northerners termed places such as this. The oldest man was the first horseman, the head man of the bothy crew. From the first horseman, the others were ranked in descending order to the boy, who was the halflin, or the orra loon. The halflin was learning how to be a man, performing the menial, thankless tasks.

Feeding time, lads, I said, laying my tray on the table.

You’re new, the first horseman said. He stepped towards me, smiling. I’m Dougie.

I’m Ellen, I told him, aware his man’s eyes were assessing me from the crown of my head to my boots and back, lingering around my hips and breasts.

I’m Andrew, the serious-faced man said, and the freckled fellow is Jim. The halflin is Peter.

I smiled at them all in turn. When Jim smiled back, his freckles merged into a solid mass of orange-brown. Lifting a trump, a Jew’s harp, to his mouth, he strummed a short tune, drumming one of his feet against the wall. The halflin, Peter glanced at my face and looked away in nervous confusion. I guessed his age at fifteen, although he was tall.

Here’s your brose, I said. I brought some oatcakes as well. And some cheese if you want it.

The men looked at me in approval. Jim was first to the table, we don’t usually get oatcakes on a Monday, he said.

It’s a special treat, I said, as I am new. I wondered if Mrs Lunan would mind me plundering her pantry and shrugged. It was a small matter, and food was there to be eaten.

You can stay as long as you like if you bring oatcakes and cheese, Jim said. He stroked a hand over his smooth chin and sighed. I’ll have to shave after I’ve eaten.

Dougie looked at me and laughed. Long after you’ve eaten, Jim. Maybe six months after! He rubbed a rough hand over Jim’s jaw. You’ve got a long way to go before you’re even half a man!

I said nothing, aware that Jim had spoken for my benefit, testing me out, boasting of his maturity, despite his lack of years. Dougie eyed me, assessing my suitability for whatever purpose he had in mind.

You’re not from around here. Dougie spun a chair, so the back was towards me. He straddled his legs across it, facing me, trying to look tough.

I am not, I agreed.

We don’t get many strangers in Kingsinch, Dougie continued.

Why is that? I asked.

When Dougie’s smile widened, I knew he had hoped for the question. People are scared to come to this steading, he said.

Oh? Why?

Dougie leaned closer to me. The bogles might get them.

I did not flinch. The bogles won’t get me, I said, and neither will the horsemen, so don’t think it.

That’s you told, Dougie, Andrew spoke around his Jew’s harp. She’s put you in your place.

There’s time yet. Dougie settled back in his chair with his eyes promising much and his body ready to follow. Kingsinch is a lonely place in the long nights of winter, and a woman can seek a man’s solace when the bogles are out.

Not this woman, I told him bluntly, and if you put your solace near me, I’ll chop it off.

Andrew laughed openly at that, while Jim smiled, and young Peter looked uncomfortable. Dougie's scowl deepened, and I knew he and I could not be friends. Men such as Dougie need to be in charge; they do not like a woman to best them in anything.

I stood up and gathered the empty crockery. Just you remember that, Douglas Mitchell. I had no intention of allowing another man to intimidate me.

I felt Dougie’s dislike as I left the bothy.

CHAPTER 2

You must be Ellen, the present kitchen maid said. Plump, pretty and pregnant, she wore her dark hair piled on top of her head. Three inches taller than I was, she greeted me with a smile. I’m Agnes. Have you had the tour of the steading, yet?

Not yet, I said, already prepared to like this woman although it was far too early to consider friendship.

We’ll go out in a few moments, Agnes said. Don’t let Mrs Lunan worry you. She criticises everybody. I think it’s because she’s Mr Lunan’s second wife and younger than he is, so has to prove herself.

I nodded. I was not concerned about a carping woman, for I had faced much worse in my time. Thank you, I said, hoping the words suited the occasion.

Come on, then, Agnes said. We don’t get much free time here, so we’ll go now before it gets too dark. She hesitated, Make a long arm, Ellen, and fetch down that light, she pointed to a battered brass lantern that hung from a hook on the wall, and be quiet near the steading. Mr Lunan disapproves of us going out after dark.

Why is that? I asked, stretching for the lantern. I shook it, hearing the whale-oil slosh inside, and checked the wick was in place.

In reply, Agnes indicated her belly. Maybe that’s why, she said and laughed. It’s all right, we’re getting married soon anyway.

I smiled, although I was unconcerned if Agnes and her lover should get married or not. The idea of making something moral after the event seemed somehow hypocritical. Congratulations, I said. Who’s your intended?

Andrew, Agnes said. Andrew Ferguson, the second horseman. You would meet him in the bothy.

The man with the serious eyes, I said.

Serious eyes, yes, that’s my Andrew, Agnes agreed at once. Better put your coat on, Ellen; it’s cold out there. Come on. Scratching a match, she applied it to the wick of the lantern and opened the door. We negotiated the kitchen and stepped outside, where a snell wind from the hills flapped the coats around our legs and nipped our noses.

We’re north-facing, Agnes explained, and the hills attract the cold.

It was dusk, not yet full dark, and the hills were soft edged against the night. You already know the bothy where the boys are, Agnes said, pointing to the long stone barn. I heard rough male voices and a burst of singing, with words unsuitable for delicate ears.

It’s sometimes better not to listen to their songs, Agnes said.

I laughed. I’ve heard worse, I said.

The dark was gathering, creeping into the steading from the surrounding fields, carrying noises I tried to identify. I heard the creaking of a gate, the distant lowing of cattle, the brush of wind through the trees, and, further out, the bleating of sheep. They were all natural sounds. I did not hear the sound I feared the most.

Over here. Agnes led me to a pair of barns. This is where we store the winter fodder and next year’s seed. The byre – well, you’ll know that already. That’s where we milk the cattle beasts.

I nodded. I had already had a stint of milking with the cows warm, friendly bodies around me.

Agnes pointed to the sprig of rowan above the byre door. Mr Lunan insists we keep that there. He gets all upset if the wind blows it away.

Why? I asked. What’s it for?

Agnes screwed up her face. It’s to keep away witches, I think. That will be one of your duties, ensuring the rowan is always there.

I nodded, hiding my smile. Maybe one of the boy’s should do that, I said. It’s right high.

Agnes laughed. Yes, you’re not the tallest of girls, are you? She patted her swollen belly. I’m not one for climbing up ladders in my condition. I had to ask one of the boys. Andy did it for me, but maybe Jim will help, or the halflin. If you ask in the right way, they’ll oblige.

That Dougie may oblige too much, I