The Wings of Ruksh (5 page)

Several days after his conversation on the misty shores of Loch Leven with the Chief Constable of Edinburgh, George Tatler walked into King’s Cross station in London, chatting idly with his secretary. As he often travelled to Scotland, he knew King’s Cross well and his glance was therefore casual as it swept the broad expanse of the main concourse. His expression,
however
, quickly changed to one of concern as he approached his platform. He stared, totally thunderstruck at the sight that met his eyes, for its entire length was looped, hung and strung in tartan.

“What the devil’s going on, Martin?” he queried, lifting his eyebrows in amazement at the sight of hordes of tartan-clad passengers. True, there were a few men in suits, but they were totally outnumbered by those in kilts. And the women! His eyes goggled at the long tartan skirts, ruffled blouses and vast, trailing, loose shawls that drifted around them. Even the
children
sported mini kilts and the theme seemed to have spilled over into tartan luggage, pushchairs and even the odd carrier bag.

“I told you it was bad,” his secretary glanced at him
apprehensively
. “Edinburgh is a nightmare! Believe me, an absolute nightmare!”

“Good grief!” Tatler exclaimed. It was totally mind-
boggling
! He eyed the engines and carriages of the Intercity train with complete and utter horror as it pulled into the station. “I don’t believe it,” he said, stopping dead in his tracks as his eyes took in the full enormity of a train plastered from end to end in tartan. “What’s the matter with the Scots? Have they all gone mad?”

“That’s as good an explanation as any,” Martin said sourly. “They seem to be a law unto themselves these days. Just look at them!” he flapped his hand at the sea of Scottish passengers surging along the platform. “Tartan to the eyeballs!” He shook his head. “The real problem, as I see it, is that they don’t seem to realize how totally over-the-top it all is!
They
think it’s wonderful!”

“Wonderful!” repeated Tatler in awed tones. “There’s
nothing
wonderful
about it! It’s downright awful!”

“You try telling
them
that!” muttered Martin, wincing at the sight of a hairy Highlander. “And if you think
this
is awful, just
wait
till you see Edinburgh! I’m telling you, you won’t
recognize
it!”

“It wouldn’t be so bad,” Tatler muttered in horror, his eyes drinking in the garish dreadfulness of the tartan train, “if all the carriages were painted in the same tartan but … but they’re all different!”

“They’re all different inside as well, sir.”

“You mean …?”

“Tartan from end to end,” nodded his secretary, “carpets, seats, the lot and,” he added, turning pale at the horror of it, “there are bagpipes as well.”

“Bagpipes!! They – play – bagpipes – on – the – train?”

“All the way north, I’m afraid, sir.” He fished in his pockets and drew out a small envelope. “That’s why I brought you these. I thought you might need them.”

“What are they?” Tatler regarded him suspiciously.

“Earplugs,” said his secretary, hiding a grin. “You’re going to need them, believe me. I … er … I also bought you these for the journey.”

Tatler looked inside the plastic bag. “Sandwiches and bottled water? But surely I can buy these on the train?”

Martin shook his head. “Not any more,” he said, his eyes glinting. “They now have what they call a
Scottish
menu.”

“What on earth do you mean, ‘a Scottish menu’?”

“Principally haggis, mashed turnips and potatoes followed
by shortbread, something called ‘Black Bun’ and … and a drink called Irn Bru.”

“Iron Brew! What the devil’s Iron Brew?”

“I asked that myself when I was in Edinburgh last week and they told me it was made from girders. No, sir,” Martin gulped at the expression on Tatler’s face. “Seriously! That’s what they said!”

By the time the train reached Edinburgh’s Waverley Station, Tatler had cause to be grateful to his secretary — for the
earplugs
, if nothing else! And although he had been forewarned about the changes in Edinburgh, nothing had prepared him for the dreadful reality of a city that positively wallowed in tartan.

“I can’t understand why you haven’t noticed it, Archie,” he said to the Chief Constable the following day. “The castle’s the same as before, thank heavens, but the rest of Edinburgh,” he flapped his hands helplessly, “seems to be covered in tartan!” He shook his head in disbelief. “Thistles, flags, tartan streamers, banners of all the different clans — they’re here, there and everywhere. Bagpipes on every street corner! For goodness sake, Archie,
Hollywood
couldn’t do it any better! It’s not
natural
! It’s … it’s like
Braveheart
out there! And the people! Kilts all over the place! I ask you!”

Archie Thompson frowned at Tatler across his desk. “We
are
Scottish, you know, George,” he said somewhat sharply. “Tartan’s very popular. I’ve even had a request from the Scottish Police Federation to issue tartan trousers to the men. There’s a big demand for it! Tartan’s fashionable these days!”

“Fashionable!” Tatler looked flabbergasted. “For heaven’s sake, wake up, man! It’s more than fashionable! It’s … it’s weird!”

The Chief Constable, however, not only looked totally unconvinced by Tatler’s outburst, he also looked more than slightly offended. So much so that Tatler was visited by a
sudden
feeling of acute anxiety and thought it politic to change the subject. Mind racing, he sat back in his chair and, taking a deep breath, broached the real reason for his visit to Edinburgh;
Duncan Campbell’s film of Loch Ness. “Ah well! Down to business!” he said, mustering as much of a smile as he could manage. “You got the film from Campbell, you said?”

“Ah, yes. The film. Yes, Duncan brought it in personally. I hope you don’t mind but I’ve already gone through it with him. He was on his way to film wildlife somewhere in Africa — Kenya, I think, so we went through it before he left. It’s quite short, actually. Only lasts a few minutes.” He pressed a switch on a TV monitor and they watched as the screen flickered and came to life. As the blue waters of Loch Ness appeared, Tatler leant forward and gave it his full attention.

“Hmm,” he said as the Chief Constable rewound it and they went through it again, “there’s not much to go on, is there.”

“It really only makes sense if Campbell’s story about the Loch Ness Monster is true, you know,” Thompson said. “Look at this bit, where the water is suddenly all churned up for no apparent reason. He pointed it out in particular. And, as
he
said, the children in that frame,” he clicked on “pause” to hold the picture, “are definitely scared. Look at the girl’s face!”

“The men aren’t too happy, either,” Tatler said shrewdly. “Which is the one you recognized?”

“The chap on the right. His name’s Sir James Erskine. Totally respectable chap. Has a distillery down by Holyrood Park that makes that fabulous whisky called ‘The MacArthur.’ You must have tasted it.”

Tatler raised his eyebrows and smiled. “I have, indeed,” he said feelingly.

“He’s an MSP as well, you know. Got elected to the Scottish Parliament last year.”

The two men looked at one another speculatively. “He doesn’t really seem the type to be mixed up in any funny
business
, does he,” Tatler said. “Still, you never know. Who’s the other man?”

“The Park Ranger on Arthur’s Seat, a chap called John MacLean. He lives in one of the Park cottages near the distillery
so it’s perfectly reasonable to assume they know one another. Equally respectable, too, I might add. The children are his, by the way.”

“To my mind, it’s the children that are the stumbling block,” Tatler mused. “Who in their right minds would put their
children
at risk with dragons around?”

“So you think it could all be perfectly innocent?”

“It could be if it weren’t for Duncan Campbell’s story.” Tatler pursed his lips. “And there
was
a dragon, remember. A
planeload
of people saw it.”

“Including one of my special constables!” nodded Archie Thompson. He paused, eying Tatler thoughtfully. “I’ll get my secretary to make an appointment for us to see Sir James, then, shall I?”

“Yes,” agreed Tatler. “Whatever’s on the film, I think we have to talk to him anyway.”

As the Chief Constable pressed a buzzer to call his secretary, Tatler got to his feet and strolled to a window that overlooked what was now a veritable tartan city. As far as he was
concerned
, the dragon was now almost of minor importance. More serious by far was the tartan nightmare that seemed to have Scotland in its grip. His secretary hadn’t told him the half of it. It was much, much worse than he’d thought. And how on earth, wondered Tatler, could the Chief Constable of Edinburgh, an astute and intelligent man, not realize the freakishness that was being perpetrated under his very nose?

But who or what lay behind this sudden passion for all things Scottish? And it was a passion, of that he had no doubt. A very strong passion. The passengers on the train had convinced him of it. They positively revelled in their tartan clothes, ate haggis with gusto and tapped their feet enthusiastically to the swirl of the
bagpipes
. It wasn’t put on. They were genuine, through and through.

He pursed his lips and frowned; for what really worried him was the fact that he couldn’t, for the life of him, understand why!

“Thank goodness Arthur remembers the way,” muttered Hamish, holding a torch aloft as he led a small group of MacArthurs along a narrow, dusty passage, deep under Arthur’s Seat. “I haven’t been down here in ages.”

“Me neither,” answered Jaikie, panting slightly. “For
goodness
sake, give Archie a shout and get him to slow Arthur down a bit. He’s galloping along at a rate of knots! I can’t keep up and that carrier-thing we’ve rigged up for the mirrors, is going to start banging off the side of the tunnel if he goes any faster.”

Archie, perched on Arthur’s back, ducked his head as the light of his torch gleamed on the uneven roof of the tunnel. Hearing Hamish’s shout, he twisted round and glanced in concern at the ropes that harnessed a flat, trolley-like affair to Arthur’s massive bulk. “Slow down, Arthur,” he said
worriedly
. “You’re going too fast! We don’t want the ropes to get tangled.”

Although Arthur obediently slowed down, the worst was over as the tunnel widened suddenly to reveal a huge, roundish hall. Set into its rocky walls were a series of large, arched doors.

“I remember this cave,” Archie said excitedly, slipping off Arthur’s back and sticking his blazing torch in one of the wall sconces. The MacArthurs crowded in round the dragon who led them to a door on the far side of the cavern.

Two burly MacArthurs pulled the door open and there was an awed silence as they walked in and looked at the shrouded bulk of the magic mirrors stacked against the walls of the store room.

“Take the covers off and let’s see them,” instructed Hamish, pulling a length of dusty cloth from one of the mirrors. As the
strips of sheeting slid to the ground, the magic mirrors were revealed in all their glory, endlessly reflecting both them and the flames of their burning torches. The mirrors were huge — at least seven feet tall, Jaikie reckoned, gazing up at them in wonder. Their glass had a strange, sparkling sheen to it but the dull, iron frames, decorated with carvings of flowers, birds and animals, were oppressive as well as imposing.

Archie shivered slightly and looked at Jaikie and the others. Although they all knew that the mirrors were locked, they nevertheless had an aura of their own that proclaimed them powerful objects of magic. If one of them were to ripple, Archie thought, no one knew who or what might step through … or from where …

Hamish, obviously thinking along the same lines, gestured to the piles of sheeting. “Cover them up again,” he instructed shivering slightly, “and let’s get them loaded onto Arthur’s
trolley
. And don’t, whatever you do, touch any of the carvings or you might switch one on by accident!”

It took at least six MacArthurs to load each one and they were all panting as the last mirror, looped with ropes, was hauled up to the top of the pile.

“Can you pull all this weight, Arthur?” Archie asked
anxiously
. “They must weigh a ton!”

Arthur looked down his nose at Archie and blew a puff of smoke. “Do me favour, Archie,” he said dryly, “I
am
a dragon, remember!”

The pace of the return journey was, nevertheless, a lot slower and, as they followed the trolley, Archie’s heart sank as his mind raced over the problems that faced him; for magic mirrors were notoriously tricky things. Each mirror was actually only half a mirror and could only be considered whole when the settings of any two halves matched up. That the other half of the mirror could be on the other side of the world made no difference — if the settings were correct in a few seconds you could quite easily step between towns, cities
and countries worldwide. Nevertheless, they had their risks; for if the setting of one half was wrong then you could, as Hamish had said, end up in Outer Mongolia or Darkest Africa, for that matter. And the destructive wave of energy caused by two mirrors locking against one another could cause complete devastation … Archie shivered at the thought.

“Do you think you’ll manage to set them all properly, then?” queried Jaikie, looking at him doubtfully.

“I hope so,” muttered Archie.

The Great Hall was a scene of total confusion when they arrived. MacArthurs milled everywhere and had obviously been busy in their absence, for long tables now stretched the length of the hall; gold dishes were being unpacked and
polished
; delicious smells drifted up from the kitchens and Lady Ellan, looking a trifle frayed as she organized the preparations for the great banquet, waved to them in relief as she saw them start to unload the mirrors.

By the end of the day, the hall was ready. The MacArthur, dressed in robes of fur and velvet, looked round and nodded in approval. Hung with banners and blazing with light from
hundreds
of torches, the hall was magnificent and certainly befitted the status of their royal visitor. He strode towards the gilded chairs that had been set up in honour of their guest. Arthur, whose scales glowed crimson in the torchlight, moved forward and curled proudly at his side with Archie standing beside him.

The MacArthur then lifted his arms and in a commanding voice, chanted the words of a powerful spell.

Silence fell. By this time, the MacArthurs had all heard that Prince Kalman was in Edinburgh and knew that this could be a dangerous few minutes; for by dropping the protective shield, they were allowing him access to the hill.

Time passed — second by nervous second.

“Are all the mirrors set?” questioned the MacArthur as his crystal ball was placed in front of him.

Archie gulped, nodded and crossed his fingers behind his back as the MacArthur passed his hand over the shining
crystal
. As it glowed to life, he spoke briefly to Lord Rothlan. “The shield’s been lifted, Alasdair. The Sultan can step through now.”

Almost immediately, one of the mirrors rippled and a gasp of wonder echoed round the hall as Sulaiman the Red, Sultan of Turkey, stepped through into the great hall, slowly surveying its grandeur before turning to the MacArthur, who, with Arthur accompanying him, stepped forward, bowing low. Lady Ellan curtsied, overawed by the jewelled magnificence of the Sultan’s golden clothes. Draped in ropes of pearls, sparkling with diamonds and glowing with rubies and emeralds, he was totally breathtaking. Lifting her eyes to his handsome, bearded face, however, she saw beyond the outward show of his regalia and breathed a silent sigh of relief; for the Sultan’s glance, although proud, was both shrewd and intelligent.

By this time, all the mirrors were rippling as, curved
scimitars
swinging at their sides, the colourful, gaudily-clad figures of the Sultan’s Guard jostled and tumbled their way into the hall after their master.

But where was Lord Rothlan, Ellan wondered, her eyes searching the row of mirrors. She saw Sir James step into the hall with an expression of bewilderment on his face that made her smile. Neil and Clara followed with their father behind them, and then Lord Rothlan appeared holding Mrs MacLean by the hand as she stepped through the frame of the mirror into the hall.

Ellan moved forward swiftly and caught her by the hand. “Mrs MacLean,” she said warmly, “how lovely to see you, but …” She looked questioningly at Lord Rothlan, knowing that Mrs MacLean didn’t have a firestone.

“Janet got caught up with the Turks in the restaurant,” he explained. “She travelled through the mirrors with me.”

“We really should have given you a firestone ages ago,” Lady
Ellan said, apologetically. “We’ll all be busy tonight with the Sultan’s banquet but I promise you, it’s the first thing we’ll do tomorrow morning!”

The arrival of the Sultan of Turkey and his court was a
glittering
event that set the magic carpets in the hill rippling with delight for they had all been made in Turkey in days long past and the power of the Sultan and his crown was woven into their very fabric. His presence renewed their strength and Neil and Clara, thankful to be back in familiar surroundings, could feel the hill sparking with magic as the Sultan walked through its halls.

The feast that evening was an occasion that few would
forget
. Torches burned brightly in the sconces on the walls, their flickering flames reflected in the glowing gold dishes and bowls that decorated tables now laden with food.

During the course of the evening, Sir James met the MacArthur’s eyes and they exchanged smiles of relief at its obvious success. It was, thought Sir James, a scene of almost mediaeval splendour and one that he would always remember.