Guardian Of The Dark Slap

PRELUDE

GALIPOLLI, SUMMER 1915

Gunfire lit the horizon, with the nonstop flashes destroying the sanctuary of the dark. Lieutenant Thomas Armstrong of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers crouched in the trench, feeling the ground tremble under his feet as the first shells exploded around him. The noise was so continuous that he could not distinguish any single sound and could hardly hear the man beside him speaking.

Sir! Sergeant Kilner mouthed the word. We’ve lost Number One Section. A Turkish shell landed directly on top of them.

Thomas nodded. Thank you, Sergeant! He flinched as a shell exploded twenty yards away, sending a shower of earth and small stones to patter on his helmet and shoulders.

The bombardment continued, with explosions all around the British and Anzac trenches, blasting dirt, stones, and fragments of men into the air. It rose to a crescendo and stopped abruptly at dawn, leaving men stunned, gasping for air, and scrabbling for cover in the bottom of shallow trenches.

The Turks will attack any moment now, Thomas realised. He forced himself to stand upright and peer over the dust-hazed landscape towards the Turkish positions. A glitter in the distance warned of a moving mass of men carrying rifles with fixed bayonets.

Here they come, boys! Stand to!

Whistles sounded along the length of the British trenches, and men emerged from cover, adjusting their helmets, checking their rifles, and staring into the rising sun.

The Turks advanced as bravely as always, a mass of men in dark khaki uniforms cheering as they ran forward. The officers led from the front, resolute in their determination to push the invaders from their land.

The British artillery opened fire, raising fountains of dust among the Turkish infantry, smashing men to a pulp, or sending deadly shrapnel to lacerate frail human bodies. The machine guns came next, the .303 Vickers, renowned for their reliability as they scythed down the advancing men. After a few moments, the Lewis machine guns joined the cacophony, with the riflemen firing last.

Come on, Borderers! Thomas shouted. Show Johnny Turk what we’re made of!

The men aimed and fired, worked the bolts of their Lee-Enfields, held the stocks firm to their shoulders, and fired again. Soon there was no need to aim; the Turks were so close the Borderers fired at the mass of dark khaki, working the rifle bolts frantically.

Come on, Johnny Turk! Thomas found himself shouting as he stood in the trench, encouraging his men. Come and face the Borderers! He emptied his revolver and paused to reload, pushing the cartridges into their chambers with trembling, dirty fingers. He dropped one cartridge and watched the growing light reflect on the brass as it spiralled, seemingly in slow motion, down to the dust.

Thomas jammed the final cartridge into his revolver and looked up. Despite their losses, the Turks were nearly at the trench, teeth and bayonets gleaming.

Fire! Thomas roared. Send them back to Constantinople, boys! He squeezed the trigger, saw his bullets knock a Turkish officer sprawling, and then the Borderers were fighting bayonet to bayonet.

A stocky Turk jumped into the trench and lunged at Thomas, who shot him, seeing the man’s head shatter under the force of the bullet. Another Turkish soldier took his place, and then another until Thomas had emptied his revolver and was fighting with fists and boots. He saw Wee Willie Scott leap into the air and smash his forehead into a Turk’s face as Danny Hunnam fell with a Turkish bayonet in his stomach.

Fight them! Thomas shouted and screamed as something long, sharp, and cold snaked into his side. He turned around and saw the swarthy face of a Turkish private, and then somebody cracked a rifle butt on his head, and he crumpled to the ground. Before he passed out, he saw a shadowy figure at the far end of the trench, a tall man dressed like a mediaeval knight.

What the devil is he doing here?

Tom! The voice came to him from far away. Tom! Wake up!

Thomas fought away the memories and opened his eyes. I had that nightmare again, he said. What a mazurka! ¹

I know, Eleanor told him. You were shouting in your sleep. Her smile teased him. Your language was shocking.

Thomas struggled to sit up. Trench language, he explained. Not fit for a lady’s ears.

Well, Eleanor said, I’m no lady, I’m your sister, and I’ve heard it all before. Get up, wash, and get dressed. We’ve got a bit of a drive before us.

It was the war, Thomas explained.

The war ended three years ago, Eleanor reminded sternly. It’s time you forgot about it.

It’s in my mind all the time, Thomas said.

That’s why we’re moving to somewhere quiet. Eleanor dragged the covers from the bed. New beginning and no old memories. Come on! She slapped his leg and pulled his arm. Up!

Thomas frowned. This dream was a little different, he said. I thought I saw a knight in armour in the trench.

Eleanor shook her head. Were there not angels and archers at Mons? Maybe there’s a connection.

I was dreaming of Gallipoli, Thomas said, shrugged, and slid out of bed. Come on, sister-of-mine. We have a longish drive ahead of us.

I think I already said that, Eleanor told him.

CHAPTER 1

NEWBIGGING, SCOTTISH BORDERS, OCTOBER 1921

The hotel looked unprepossessing as Thomas pulled the dark green Crossley to a halt outside the front door. Two storeys high, with the whitewash peeling off the outside wall and the sign, Wardlaw Inn, creaking in the wind, it would not have appealed to him before the war. Now, in the aftermath of four years of bloody slaughter, appearance meant nothing, he had discarded luxury, and even comfort was not supremely important.

Are you ready? Eleanor asked brightly.

Thomas nodded to her with his eyes dull. I’m ready. He glanced along the street, seeking inspiration.

The village of Newbigging was quiet, with the drizzling rain dampening the autumnal dust on the pavement and weeping from a neglected gutter above the inn’s signboard. Nobody walked the street, while a solitary farm cart rumbled slowly along the road. The driver stared at the Crossley as he passed, saying nothing. He managed a reluctant nod in response to Eleanor’s cheery hail.

An aroma of dampness greeted them as they pushed open the inn’s front door. There was no reception desk, merely a small table with a vase of wilting flowers and a brass handbell. Eleanor rang the bell, the sound breaking the sombre silence of the inn. When nobody appeared, she rang again.

I heard you the first time. The man was in his late middle age, with a bald head and a limp. What do you want?

We’ve booked in for the week, Eleanor said. Thomas Armstrong and Eleanor Machrie. She waited for his comment.

That will be two single rooms, the man said after a short pause.

Or a twin, Eleanor said with a smile. We’re brother and sister.

Eleanor expected his downward glance to check if she was wearing a wedding ring. My husband died at Ypres, she said.

The man grunted, eyeing Eleanor sourly. ‘Twin, he said. First floor. Room number three. Where’s your luggage?"

In the car, Eleanor told him. My brother will bring it in.

The man nodded. Dinner’s six till eight. Breakfast’s seven till eight.

Thank you, Mister… Eleanor waited for the man to give his name.

Johnston, he said grudgingly. Turning away without another word, he slouched through a half-glazed door.

Twin, Eleanor confirmed. First floor. Number three. Could you fetch the bags, Tom?

She waited for Thomas to return and climbed up the creaking steps to the first floor, past the panelled walls with their faded pictures of Walter Scott, Robert Burns, and the ubiquitous Landseer print of a stag at bay.

The room was decorated in similar taste, with a once-good-quality but now worn rug on the ground above varnished floorboards, two iron beds, and pictures of Edinburgh Castle and the Eildon Hills on the wall. Eleanor half expected to see a portrait of Queen Victoria, dead these last twenty years, frowning down on them.

How are the beds, Thomas?

She heard the ominous creak of springs as Thomas sat on the nearest.

Good, he said.

Eleanor tested the second bed and nodded when she found it better than she had feared. Here we are, then.

Here we are, Thomas agreed.

Tomorrow is the big day.

Thomas nodded, sitting on the bed, staring at the wall with his mind elsewhere.

You unpack while I look at the view. Stepping to the window, Eleanor stared up the street. She gave a wry smile, thinking they must have arrived at the busy period, for now, half an hour later, nothing at all stirred in the village. Newbigging was dead. She counted three shops: a baker, a butcher and one with the name Elliot in faded gold letters against a brown background. Eleanor presumed the locals would know what Elliot’s sold, while any visitors would have to guess.

Eleanor knew the layout of this village, although she had never been here in her life. It was similar to a score of other eighteenth-century planned settlements in Scotland, with two streets intersecting at right angles in a reasonably large market square, where the Inn, the church, and the shops were situated. Simple, robust, and practical, it allowed nothing for the local geography.

This place doesn’t belong, Eleanor observed.

Why not? Thomas joined her at the window.

It’s too manufactured. Somebody has deliberately placed it here. Knowing Thomas would not understand her reasoning, Eleanor looked beyond the houses to the distant hills. Long, grey-green, and gently curved, they had endured tens of thousands of years of history. I prefer organic growth.

Oh. When Thomas said no more, Eleanor knew she had lost him.

Best get changed, Eleanor said. We’ll be late for dinner. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, wincing at his clumsiness. Let me help you.

I know how to dress! Thomas said.

Of course you do, Eleanor said, fighting her pain. When Thomas thought he had finished, she adjusted his tie, brushed down his shoulders, and headed downstairs.

Although Eleanor and Thomas were the only guests in the inn, there were two other couples for dinner. One pair had evidently been married for many years, as they communicated with hardly a word while still managing to make themselves understood. The other couple had apparently never seen strangers before, to judge by the interest they took in the new guests. When the man bent forward to murmur something to his companion, Eleanor saw Thomas tense, with his right fist clenching around his knife.

No, Thomas. Eleanor shook her head. It doesn’t matter. Turning around in her seat, she returned their scrutiny, giving them stare for stare until they dropped their eyes. Eleanor continued to watch them as they ate.

Is everything all right? The waitress was blonde-haired and cheerful, a breath of fresh air in that room of gloom.

Fine, thank you, Eleanor assured her. As she looked willing to help, Eleanor continued. Are you local to the area?

When the waitress smiled, her freckles merged, so half her face was one mass of ginger. I’ve lived here all my life, she said. As has my family as long as time.

That’s good. Eleanor gave her an encouraging smile. You’ll know your way around, then.

As well as anybody, the waitress replied.

Do you know a house called Anton’s Walls? Eleanor asked. It’s a strange name, but I know it’s somewhere nearby. I didn’t see it on the Bartholomew’s map.

I ken it fine. The waitress’s smile broadened. It’s empty, though. Old Jock Armstrong died over a year ago if you were looking for him.

I was not, Eleanor said. Could you tell me how to get there, please?

Pulling up a chair, the waitress sat beside Thomas. Are you walking? There’s no’ a bus service that way. Maybe you can hire a chaise from Geordie Rutherford’s in the village.

We have a car, Eleanor said. It’s parked in the street outside.

Oh! The waitress shook her head. I wondered who owned the Crossley! I should have known it would be yours! She treated Thomas to a smile.

Is there a road to Anton’s Walls?

There’s a bit of one, the waitress told me. A country road, as we call it, not a metalled road.

Eleanor nodded. She had expected nothing else. It’ll be a quiet place, then.

Aye, it’s quiet, the girl said. There’s nothing much there except the moor. Not even sheep, since old Jock Armstrong died. She glanced at Thomas, sitting quietly at Eleanor’s side. Maybe Old Jock’s ghost.

That won’t bother us, Thomas said quickly.

A rough voice broke in. What do you want to go to Anton’s for?

Eleanor had not seen the elderly man arrive. He stood beside the table, dressed in faded working clothes and smelling of damp soil and tobacco.

There’s nothing there for toonies and stooriefeet. Anton’s is in the middle of a wilderness. Why would anybody want to build a house there? The man’s voice was harsh, like gravel dragged under a gate, and a mass of wrinkles hid his eyes.

It may be a wilderness now, Eleanor suggested. It might not have been a couple of hundred years ago. The population has shifted. Back then, there might have been hundreds of little farms, each with a family running it. She turned to Thomas. Get the map out, Tom. This lady might point out where Anton’s Walls is.

My name’s Sharon, the girl volunteered.

Deepsyke’s always been a muir, the old man grumbled.

When Eleanor spread the map over the table, Sharon bent across with her long hair brushing against Thomas. I’ve never seen it like that before, she said. Look at all the names written down. She traced her finger over the linen-backed paper. Hawkshaw, Wolf Rig, Wardlaw, Bareback Knowe, Hangingshaw, Dod’s Bog, Bareback Cleuch, Dundreich, Deepsyke Moor – they’ve spelt it wrong. It should be muir, not moor.

Eleanor allowed Sharon a few moments to peruse the map. Could you show us where Anton’s Walls is please?

Here. Without hesitation, Sharon stabbed a finger down. Right in the middle of Deepsyke Muir.

The name sent a shiver through Eleanor as if the bleakness of the moor had entered her soul. "A syke is a burn ¹ in boggy ground, isn’t it? Is Deepsyke Muir as bleak as it sounds?"

Aye. The old man breathed out stale tobacco fumes. There’s naething there but bogland and dark water.

It’s not that bad. Sharon shook her head. Don’t listen to Martin here. He likes to see the dark in everything! Her eyes laughed at the elderly man. "Don’t you, Martin? Deepsyke Muir is a lovely place when the sun shines. You’ll hear the laverocks singing, the whaups calling, ² and the bees searching for heather honey."

You’ll hear the hoolet too, Old Martin croaked. Dinnae forget the hoolet.

Exactly, Sharon said. You’ll hear the hoolets too. That’s the owls, she explained for the benefit of city-bred people who did not know what a hoolet was.

There’s nothing there except moss, heather, and peat holes deep enough to suck you down forever, Martin said. You’d best get back to Glasgow or wherever you belong.

Edinburgh, Eleanor told him, smiling.

Aye. Martin stepped back. Edinburgh. He repeated the name as if it were a curse. You’d best get back where you belong. There’s nothing for you in Anton’s Wa’s except hardship and misery.

We’ve seen that. Thomas looked up with a dark light at the back of his eyes. We’ve seen hardship and misery. Reaching out, he gripped Martin’s wrist. Eleanor saw life spark into Thomas’s face for a second, and then it died away again as he released Martin and slumped in his chair.

Sharon looked from Eleanor to Thomas and back with a question in her eyes. Eleanor diverted her attention. I heard that the house was named after somebody called Anthony. Is that correct?

Aye, Martin answered first. Jock’s great-great-great-grandfather, Anthony Armstrong, built the place. He gave it some fancy name that nobody heeded. Everybody called it Anthony’s Walls, which became Anton’s Wa’s, although the stooriefeet call it Anton’s Walls. His glare at Thomas conveyed his contempt for stooriefeet as he called incomers to the area. ³

Are you a local historian? Eleanor asked politely.

Martin favoured her with a dark glower. No.

Martin knows everything about the Wardlaw Valley, Sharon said. Or he thinks he does. Isn’t that right, Martin? You’ve been here so long you probably lived through it all,

I know enough. Martin spoke without looking directly at her.

Sensing a little tension, Eleanor took the map and carefully crunched it into a hideous mess on the table. Absently, Thomas sorted it out, folded it neatly and replaced it inside his jacket.

Thank you, Tom, Eleanor said.

Sharon! The voice was sharp as Johnston stood in the doorway. Your job is to serve the guests, not gossip to them.

Excuse me, please. Sharon stood, bobbed in an old-fashioned little curtsey, and scurried away. Eleanor looked at Thomas hopefully, but he did not watch her hips swaying in their black-and-white uniform. Instead, he stared straight ahead, with his eyes seeing events that happened years before.

Eleanor hid her disappointment and masked her pain behind a bright smile.

With lunch over, Thomas and Eleanor walked around the village. It did not take long as there was not much to see, just two streets, a handful of small shops and the war memorial. Eleanor knew these structures were springing up throughout the country in tribute to the tens of thousands of dead Scotland lost in the Great War. She thought the monument at Newbigging was too elaborate for such a small place until she saw the number of names inscribed underneath the figure of a soldier with his head bowed and rifle reversed.

Eleanor read the names. Armstrongs, Johnstons, Elliots, Croziers, Grahams, and others. All the old Borders surnames, all dying a long way from their homes in the war to end all wars.

Thomas put out a finger, tracing one of the names. I was with him when he died. He spoke quietly. Davie Graham. A Turkish sniper got him at Gallipoli. He’d only taken three steps from the boat.

Poor lad, Eleanor commented.

Aye, he was seventeen years and two days old.

Eleanor listened as Thomas relived his war, his finger following the names of men, tracing the letters as his memories traced their lives and deaths.

Shuggie Elliot. He died at Ypres; the gas got him. Nice lad, Shug. Before Eleanor could stop him, Thomas stepped back, snapped to attention, and saluted. Although they were deep in the Scottish Borders, Eleanor knew Thomas had never left the war. When he looked at her, she wondered what he saw and what images were in his mind.

Rest easy, lads, Thomas said. We’ll never forget you.

Can you hear that? Eleanor lifted a finger. I hear music. It sounds like some old French song. She frowned, for the music was familiar, although she could not say from where. She began to sing, softly intoning the words.

"Ce fut en mai

Au douz tens gai

Que la saisons est bele,

Main me levai."

Eleanor stopped, shrugging. I don’t remember where that came from. Do you know it, Tom?

When Thomas shook his head, Eleanor saw the light die from his eyes again.

It’s a French song, Eleanor prompted without success.

I can hear music, right enough, Thomas said, but not French music.

Eleanor nodded. The French words had faded, and the sounds of somebody singing came from a small house at the very edge of the village. Looking older than the rest of the street, the building was thatched, with tiny, deep-set windows and an open door. We’ll stand outside and listen, Eleanor said. I’m sure nobody will mind.

Laughter punctuated the music, with light female voices joining the deep male and the clink of bottles or glasses. Only then did Eleanor see the sign hanging above the door with the name Dryfe Arms in faded black letters on a plain white background.

It’s a bit of a hole in the wall, she said, but shall we go in?

Thomas nodded and stepped through the door. Eleanor followed him to find the place crowded. The music stopped as soon as they entered, and a score of men and women turned to stare at them as if they were aliens. One broad-shouldered man brooding in a corner fixed them with a malevolent glower and ignored Thomas’s cheerful greeting. As Eleanor wondered if they should leave again, Thomas stepped up to the shirt-sleeved barman.

What do you have? Thomas glanced over the meagre display behind the bar.

The barman frowned. Beer or whisky.

Do you have any wine for my sister?

Beer or whisky.

One pint of Youngers then, and a small whisky with water.

After Thomas found two seats at a small round table, most of the clientele stopped staring at them and resumed their previous occupations. Only the broad-shouldered man continued with his pointed glare.

He’s a cheery fellow, Thomas said.

Eleanor nodded, leaned back, and listened to the music. It was rough and ready, without any sophistication but with plenty of energy as men and woman in shabby working clothes banged their feet on the ground and sang lustily. Some of the songs were new to Eleanor, others she recognised, although the words and tunes differed in detail.

Eleanor saw old Martin in the crowd. He fixed her with a very intense look, shook his head, looked away for a moment, and then returned to his scrutiny. His neighbour, a burly man in late middle age, ran his gaze down her body from head to foot and back and favoured her with a nod.

Eleanor nodded back, smiling.

After half an hour and two more whiskies, Eleanor was irritated by the broad-shouldered man’s staring. Aware that every eye was on her, she walked across to him, weaving past the tables and chairs.

It’s ages since I saw you! You look so different like that. Treating the man to her best smile, she touched his shoulder. We’ll meet again soon, shall we?

The man started, lifted a dirty red hat, and stormed out of the inn without saying a word. Eleanor returned to Thomas, who stared ahead of him. Eleanor did not think he had noticed.

Old Martin gave Eleanor a slight nod that could have signified approval. He stepped over to her. That man was Wally Nixon, the factor, he croaked. An ill man to cross. He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. You did well, my friend. Now listen to my song and pay heed.

Eleanor nodded. She felt something had changed, as if she had stepped through a hidden doorway. Brushing away the French song that whispered in her ears, she tried to concentrate on Martin, knowing something significant was about to happen.

CHAPTER 2

Leaving Eleanor, old Martin returned to his table and remained standing.

"You all know me. I’m Martin Crozier, so haud your tongues when I’m singing the Twa Corbies." He began to sing in his weary old voice, with the room obediently quiet. He fixed Eleanor with a stare as if to ensure she was paying attention.

The Twa Corbies is a five-stanza Border ballad where two corbies – crows – talk about a dead knight