The Battle for Duncragglin (2 page)

“So what happened to these Macphersons?” Alex asked, becoming interested despite himself.

“Sad to say, most were killed. But you had one very unusual ancestor who fought with William Wallace, you know….”

“What did he do?”

“Eh? Oh. Well, when he was about your age, he helped Wallace achieve a decisive victory. It was in the battle for Duncragglin, a strategically positioned castle on the east coast, up a ways from the Firth of Forth.”

“How did he do that?”

“The records are sketchy. It was a long, long time ago and not much was written back then.” The professor hesitated. “But somehow – no one knows how – he helped Wallace and his men get past the enemy defenses. For years afterwards, people thought he had special powers.”

“What kind of powers?”

“Well, for starters, he just showed up out of nowhere one day. He had a strange manner of speech and spoke of other worlds and strange things … but that's all we really know about him.”

“Is the castle still there?”

“Not really. You can see where the keep used to be and the outline of the harbor, but it's pretty much gone. All the entrances to the underground chambers were sealed off hundreds of years ago. Apparently, every now and then, someone would disappear, and folk thought they were getting lost in caves deep under the castle. Others thought the ruins were haunted, which is to be expected – that's what usually happens when a person goes missing anywhere near an old
ruin. So they blew up some more of its innards long ago and sealed it up.”

“Do they charge admission?”

“Admission!
Och,
no. It's completely abandoned. Scotland has so many ruined castles. There's not enough left of this one to interest tourists.”

No tourists, long-abandoned underground chambers … maybe there's a way to get inside.
Alex shivered with delight. Perhaps he would find dungeons with rusty iron bars, or even bits of old weapons and armor!

“I think, though, that there is something even more interesting there than the castle.” The professor lowered his voice. “Quite by accident, I found reference to an extensive underground labyrinth in some Roman writings. The Romans found this labyrinth to be quite mysterious. Now, no one has yet made the connection between the labyrinth the Romans wrote about and the caves beneath the Duncragglin ruins, but I think they could be one and the same.”

“What was the labyrinth used for?”

“Who knows? It could have been a form of defense. It would be hard for invaders to defeat people holed up in a spiderweb of caves deep under the cliffs. I have a theory, though, that there was much more to it – something very frightening….”

“What was frightening? Professor?”

“Well, that's what I've been trying to find out. From what the Romans wrote, the labyrinth might hold one of the world's great mysteries. But how a people who lived so long ago could have been so advanced, that's hard to understand….”

“So it's very old?”

“Yes. It was there long before the castle, dating back to prehistoric times. I believe it might have been built about the same time as many of the standing stone circles we see in Scotland. There might even have been a relationship between all these things – they might have worked together for some religious or magical purpose – but that's only a theory of mine.”

“I was born in a place called Strath Mern … or something like that,” Alex said. “Are the castle ruins anywhere near there?”

“Straith Meirn?” The professor pronounced it with rolling
r
's, which Alex had no hope of imitating. “Oh, yes, very near – the town's only a few miles south of the ruins.”

Alex was listening to Professor Macintyre so intently that he was only dimly aware that the airplane had been taxiing. The engines swelled to a deep roar, and Alex felt himself being pressed back into his seat. The runway markers flashed by faster and faster. The plane tipped up and the ground fell away.

Night fell, and the lights were dimmed. People reclined their seats, adjusted pillows, and pulled blankets up over their shoulders. Everyone seemed ready for sleep – everyone, that is, except Alex. Next to him, the professor sat with his seat-back reclined, eyes closed, making annoying little snorting noises. Alex debated whether to prod him to make him stop.

The professor's chin waggled down to his chest and the snoring ceased. Alex breathed a sigh of relief and tried to get comfortable, leaning back and tucking the airplane blanket under his chin.

Suddenly the professor gave out a deep gasp that left his jaw hanging open. Then he snorted louder than ever. To make matters worse, his head slowly lolled toward Alex despite all of Alex's telepathic efforts to will it back the other way.

Irritated, Alex twisted to face the window. He raised the blanket up over his head and tried hard to ignore the gasping and gurgling behind him. He imagined himself preparing for battle back in the time of William Wallace. He was covering hand-dug trenches with branches and heather to lay a trap for the enemy. Indeed, he'd come up with the very idea and was commended for it by none other than William Wallace himself, who clapped Alex warmly on the shoulder and said, “Well done, son. Wherever did ye learn such clever battle strategy?”

Morning came quickly – too quickly. A flight attendant pushed a cart down the aisle, but it didn't feel like breakfast time.

Groggily, Alex lifted the blind. The horizon had turned into a band of brilliant red that pushed back the black of night. It was becoming altogether too bright for this hour. Alex snapped the blind back down.

“L
et me take those bags – I've got a cart – how have you been – it's
so
good to see you – how was your flight?” The babble of voices swirled around Alex as he stood by himself, waiting and watching passengers reunite with family and friends.

The arrivals hall was emptying. Alex had no idea what to do next. His aunt Fiona's telephone number was with him, but he had no money to make a call. He was tired and wondered miserably if there was a bench somewhere to take a nap.

“Alex Macpherson – would ye be Alex Macpherson?”

A short, squat man with a round nose and a blotchy complexion was staring intently at him, cap in hand. Beside him, a boy about Alex's age (or about his size, anyway) was eyeing him curiously.

“I'm Alastair McRae.” The man extended a big callused hand. “This is my son Willie.”

Alex was uncomfortable with all this hand-shaking. Back-slapping and high-fiving, yes … hand-shaking, no. When Willie extended his hand (prompted by his father),
Alex slapped it and held his hand out for Willie to return the slap. He did.

“Y'r aunt Fiona isnae feelin' well, so she's arranged fir ye to bide wi' us fir a week or two.”

Alex blinked. “She's not well?”

“It isnae serious – just a head cold. Ye can gi'e 'er a call once we git to the farm. Until she's better, ye'll be staying with me and my three bairns: wild Willie here; my dochter, Annie, who's a wee bit older'n ye lads; and the wee rascal Craig, who's the youngest.”

Alex looked around for the others.

“They're back on the farm gettin' the place ready fir ye. Here, I'll take y'r bag.”

Mr. McRae looked down in surprise at the bag of comics Alex handed him. Willie stifled a snicker. Alex flushed, suddenly realizing that Mr. McRae must have meant his suitcase. They crossed the car park, Alex struggling with his suitcase and Mr. McRae lightly swinging the bag of comics.

Soon they came to a large boxy van with bold letters that read
FRESH ORGANIC PRODUCE.
Mr. McRae opened the back door and Alex gratefully slid in his suitcase.

“It's no locked – hop in.”

Not until Alex had swung open a door did he notice that the steering wheel was on his side. Willie was snickering again. Embarrassed, Alex slid across the bench seat to the middle.

Willie climbed in the passenger side and bounced impatiently. “Cm on, Dad. Let's get this truck in gear.”

Mr. McRae heaved himself up behind the wheel. He leaned forward to look past Alex to Willie. “Now you just hold on. Alex has had a long trip and no much sleep. You can show
him about the farm and the loch if he feels like it, but remember, you boys are no to be running about the coast; ye know full well how I feel about that.”

Mr. McRae turned the key and stomped on the gas pedal until the engine sputtered to life. A blue cloud mushroomed out the back of the van and drifted away.

It felt strange to Alex that the front wheels were under their seat. When they turned, the front of the van swung out precariously. Ahead was nothing but the windshield and the road.

For a while, Alex imagined himself driving, veering crazily around cars coming at him on the “wrong” side of the road. But, before long, lack of sleep caught up with him. He slumped in a daze as the misty Scottish hills rolled by. The drive took them across the high Forth Road Bridge and along narrow, winding country roads.

Eventually, the truck bumped down a dirt road lined on one side by a low stone wall. They wound around a small, irregular-shaped loch nestled in the surrounding hills and came to a farmhouse with a steep tiled roof. Farther back were ramshackle sheds and a barn. Several cows stopped to stare.

“The wailing rocks are over that way.” Willie gestured past the loch. “Down by the sea.”

“If I've told ye once, I've told ye a hundred times – ye'll no be going to the sea.” Mr. McRae stopped the van and pulled up the parking brake. He waved a threatening finger at Willie. “And don't ye start up about wailin' rocks, ghoulies, and those other tales ye like to tell. I don't want ye frightening our guest.”

Hauling his suitcase up the path, Alex saw curtains moving in a window. He caught a glimpse of the top of a head and eyes peering over the windowsill. The eyes caught him looking back and disappeared, the curtain filling the spot where they had been.

A slender girl stood leaning against the door frame, arms folded and head tilted quizzically. Her long brown hair was parted in the middle. She looked to be fourteen or fifteen.

Alex wondered what she was thinking as she watched him trudge up the walkway – the foreign boy struggling with the battered brown suitcase, Fiona's overseas nephew. Had she been told that his parents disappeared years ago, that he was sent to Canada to live with his uncle? Did she feel sorry for him, or was she wondering if he would be a bother?

“Yon's Annie,” Mr. McRae said. “Craig's about the place, somewhere.”

“Hello,” Alex said.

The girl stepped aside and held the door open. She smiled shyly.

“Craig, where are ye? Come and say hello,” Mr. McRae bellowed. There was no answer. Mr. McRae gave a tight smile. “That's Craig for ye.”

Alex followed Mr. McRae up a creaky wooden staircase to an attic room with a sloped ceiling. A dormer window overlooked the loch. There were two beds up against low walls on either side. At the foot of each bed was a wooden chest, and over each chest hung a bulletin board cluttered with prize ribbons, pictures, and pinned notes.

“Ye'll be sharing this room with Willie and Craig. That's your bed.” Mr. McRae gestured to a neatly made-up
mattress opposite the window. “There's an empty drawer for y'r things.”

Alex studied a poster of a fierce, battle-ax-wielding warrior in a dark medieval dungeon. Ghoulish creatures peered from behind corners. Across the bottom, big Gothic letters intertwined with snakes and scorpions to spell “Annihilation.”

“Do you have that game? It's cool. Want to go down and play?” Willie was already halfway out of the room. “Come.”

“Leave him be, Willie. Alex will be needing his sleep.” Mr. McRae shooed Willie out of the room before him. He turned back, one hand on the doorknob. “I'll leave ye a towel and facecloth in the washing-up room. Call me or Annie if ye need anything.”