Flower of Scotland 2 (9 page)

Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.

Jim backed away fast. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. When the horn went off he almost jumped in the air. He was halfway down the stairs almost before he realized it. He stopped, putting out a hand on the wall to steady himself.

He managed a bitter laugh.

Old Joe is barely gone ten minutes and I’m jumping at shadows already. Pull yourself together man.

Going back down to the living quarters grounded him back in a place he could relax. The noise of the horn was slightly dampened here, and if he thought he heard the chanting again, it was soon drowned out when he switched on the radio. Jim made himself a coffee and sat down with his book. The intricacies of the thriller soon drew him in and he was surprised to look up and notice that the light was going.

Now that his attention was pulled out of the book he noticed other things. The wind was up outside, whistling like a tone-deaf pensioner around the old window frames. The rain threw drum roll patterns against the glass, like frantic Morse code messages. A rogue wave hit the rocks outside with a thunderous crash and once again Jim jumped.

Old Joe would think me daft.

It was time to check on the light. He didn’t want to venture anywhere near the light room, but duty was duty, and he owed it to Joe.

He went up the stairs slowly. The higher he went the louder came the sound of the horn. And even from halfway up the staircase he heard the rain lash against the glass.

His round of the light room was cursory. On another night he might linger, enjoying the play of light on water, or even, on nights like this one, enjoying the sheer brutal force of the storm. But the chanting had got him spooked. While he was downstairs he was able to pass it off as a trick of the wind, but up here the chill he’d felt came back again.

Once more he headed for the stairs and safety.

The chant came in on a perfect beat between the period of the horn.

Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.

It was closer this time, a mixture of timbres and voices that echoed and thrummed through the whole fabric of the lighthouse. Jim’s legs wanted to run, but the sound was too close, too impossible.

Joe would want me to check.

He opened the door and stepped out onto the platform around the outside.

He immediately regretted it. The wind tugged at him, trying to throw him to the rocks below, and the rain drenched him. He sidled round, keeping his back to the glass all the way. The wind raged less wildly on the far side of the light, and the building itself protected him from the worst of the rain. Jim was able to shuffle closer to the rail and, hanging on tight, risked a look over.

Waves blasted at the rocks below, foam flying over the jetty that was usually twelve feet above the water line. Something was lying on the cobbles there, and for a moment Jim couldn’t breathe. The dark figure looked like a body, still and unmoving.

Then he saw the heads of the others bobbing in the water. A group of gray seals were swimming in the relative safety of the small harbor in front of the lighthouse. As he watched two more dragged themselves out onto the cobbles of the jetty.

They raised their heads and looked up, straight at Jim.

The chant came again.

Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.

Jim turned and ran.

He was back in the living quarters with a whisky bottle in his hand less than a minute later. But even through the thick oak door he could still hear the chanting. He turned the radio up full.

That’s better.

He poured himself a large measure and downed half of it in one gulp, letting the heat burn down to the pit of his stomach -- letting it remind him he was alive.

The words of the chant kept going round and round in his mind.

Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.

He fired up his laptop. His searches didn’t tell him much at first. He found the translation quickly enough.

Drop down dew ye heavens from above, and let the clouds rain the Just One.

A search for The Just One proved less fruitful. Until he factored in their location. The article was the first thing returned.

"St Brennan’s Abbey is now little more than a ruin, but in its day it was the focus of one of the biggest religious trials in history. Twelve monks, long time residents of the island, were found guilty of heresy. They had renounced Christ and instead had turned to worshipping a being they said lived in the seas around the island, a being they called "The Just One".

The storm went up a notch. All the lights flickered and Jim’s heart jumped into his mouth. But the lights stayed on, as did the radio. He went back to the article.

"Found guilty, the monks were sentenced to be burned at the stake, but they escaped that fate when a great storm hit. The roof of the Abbey itself fell in. When the storm was over, the monks were nowhere to be found. But local legend says that they can be heard, in the wind, singing their prayers to their watery god. The identity of this god is subject to much conjecture but…"

The lights went out. Jim fumbled in the dark for several seconds. The wind howled, and through it, the chant rose, high and loud.

Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.

Peccavimus, et facti sumus tamquam immundus nos, et cecidimus quasi folium universi.

Something banged at the oak door, hard. He heard the old wood creak. An involuntary squirt of piss ran down his leg inside his trousers.

Move you idiot.

He’d just found the dresser, and the candles, when the backup generator kicked in. He heard the rumble of the diesel engine rise up from the cellar below him.

Sorry Joe. I’d forgotten all about that.

The radio switched back on suddenly, giving him near as big a fright as the chanting.

He stood there for a while, waiting for his heart to calm, letting the sound of forties’ big band swing seep into him. When he thought he could do it without dropping the glass he poured another whisky, draining it in one smooth gulp.

It was a long time before he felt even close to calm. He went back to the laptop, looking for answers, but the comms were down. He couldn’t even find the article he had been reading in the history.

He banged the table in frustration.

Something thumped on the door in reply.

Fuck off. Just fuck off!

He waited. There was no repeat of the banging on the door. Glenn Miller’s band kept swinging.

So what now?

Jim turned out the light and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He stepped slowly over to the small window by the door and looked out.

Twelve seals sat barely fifteen feet away, each as long as a man, and nearly twice as heavy. They all had their heads raised into the teeming rain, and all had their jaws wide open showing mouths full of yellow dog-like teeth. Even above the swing band he heard the chant rise up.

Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.

As he turned away from the window, he spotted something else he had forgotten. A small box was nailed to the wall beside the door. Inside lay a flare gun, and two flares.

His hands shook as he loaded the first.

He took a deep breath and opened the door.

"Fuck off," he shouted. "Just fuck off."

Even as he raised the flare gun the seal he had aimed at swelled and grew. It rose up, tall as a man. Its body morphed until it looked like a large hefty robed figure, a cowl covering its head.

Jim pulled the trigger and the flare hissed through the rain and embedded itself in the shadows where the face would have been. The flare blazed, orange and yellow that stayed behind his eyelids when he blinked. The figure fell away, burning, into the rough water below the jetty. Jim slammed the door shut and headed for the whisky, emptying the best part of the bottle before stopping, breathless.

He moved to switch the light on, then realized he could see quite clearly. A shimmering blue glow filled the window.

It’s coming from out on the jetty.

He couldn’t help himself. He went back to the window and looked out.

They were no longer seals. They stood tall in two ranks, one of six, one of five, on either side of the jetty. The shimmering blue light rose from the thing that was hauling itself out of the sea.

It looked like nothing less than a bloated white maggot, but a maggot that was nearly thirty feet long. The blue light came from a vast maw that gaped and pulsed as it drew itself up the jetty.

Jim fumbled with another flare and took three tries before he got it loaded.

The chanting outside rose again, loud enough to drown out the radio.

Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.

He threw the door open again.

"I told you already. Fuck off."

He fired the flare straight at the pulsing mouth of the maggot.

The mouth opened wide and the flare disappeared inside, immediately snuffed out.

Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.

Peccavimus, et facti sumus tamquam immundus nos, et cecidimus quasi folium universi.

Jim was suddenly struck immobile. He wanted to turn and run, to slam the door behind him and look for more booze. But the blue light surrounded him and held him as tight as if he’d been chained.

His legs started to obey someone else’s orders. He stepped out into the storm.

The chanting immediately got louder and more urgent. He translated it in his mind, even as his throat started to articulate the sounds.

Drop down dew ye heavens from above, and let the clouds rain the Just One.

As he stood finally in front of the maggot, legs starting to melt and fuse, teeth growing in a mouth that was suddenly too small, he knew.

One of the twelve had been taken.

A replacement was needed.

It is only just.

If you liked these stories, you may like my Scottish fantasy in THE CHRONICLES OF AUGUSTUS SETON, out now at your regional Kindle store, or find out more on my home page at