Hunter's Moon

As racing clouds finally allowed the sun to spill over the water, two fighter planes from Lossiemouth shot over the Loch, hugging the rugged terrain and washing me with white jet noise. They vanished in a blink, leaving a heavy silence in their wake that was broken only by the distant bleating of a far sheep and the Police divers disembodied shouts, skimming the water like flat stones...

I watched Christmas Day creep quietly into the bar of the Kilmarnock Hotel, going unnoticed amongst the noisy revellers. In a far corner of the now-dark restaurant, Rory McGregor breathed a lusty tune from his bagpipes and no one seemed in the mood to brave the freezing darkness, or move away from the blazing log fire. Round the hearth, an assortment of village dogs lazed and twitched, overheated and dreaming, while their owners had 'another one for the road'.

George Fergus cradled a pint of flat beer and peered into the noisy bar like a disgruntled neighbour. I offered him a whisky and introduced my partner and myself.

"We're on our honeymoon, and we'd be really grateful if you'd take us out to Kilchurn Castle tonight, so that we could make our wedding wish on the battlements".

I couldn't help blushing. It had been a great idea at the time, but now the ice was thicker than a finger on the telegraph wires and Christmas should be a time of rest, even for George.

But George just muttered "Aye, dinnae tell ma, like Laird Campbell", and sighed.

"You are the local gillie aren't you, the one mentioned in the guidebook?" my partner passed the whisky.

"Aye, fur ma sins", George smiled suddenly, downed his whisky and promptly headed out into the early morning chill. We followed hesitantly, keeping to the middle of the black road.

A huge moon cast silver ripples along the length of Loch Awe. In it's light stood the frozen shape of the Drover's Inn, where the never-sleeping reception bled golden light into the darkness. We picked our way across the icy, spongy lawn to the rock-hewn jetty. George was already waiting in the small boat, and the turgid water slurped around it, as it clanked against the stone wall.

When we had steadied ourselves on the seat, George rowed away from the mooring and out onto the dappled, moonlit water, before setting the small outboard engine going. Soon we were chugging towards the black isle of Inishail.

Trying to strike up conversation with George was difficult, over the growling engine and the strengthening wind. As the boat veered west, to avoid the teeth of Inishail's shoreline, it was caught in the fast-flowing tide rushing from the Pass of Brandar into the loch. I grabbed my partner's hand, as we steered into a totally exposed stretch of water, and were buffeted by a biting wind that raced between the mountains. The small boat laboured under the weather's sudden onslaught, but battled on.

As a hunter's moon illuminated the monochrome landscape, George leaned forward and shouted, "The Dam". He pointed to our left, where we could see the great dam nestled in Ben Cruachan's heart, glinting like flint. I glanced back at George, who puffed away at a damp ,straggly, hand rolled cigarette while, with a look of intense concentration, he negotiated the boat between the channel markers. Finally, he pulled the boat up to the long, wooden jetty at the foot of Kilchurn Castle. Moonlight reflecting on sheet glass indicated that the causeway was flooded, and that the only way back was the fragile boat, now being petulantly rocked by turbulent water.

"We'll just climb to the battlements, make our wish and be straight back down".

"Ye'll be needin' this", George thrust a heavy torch towards my partner as he pushed him onto the jetty. I followed, making an ungainly exit that nearly propelled us both into the reeds. We helped each other up the boggy hill, over the stone entrance and onto the castle's grassy floor.

"It's magic!" whispered my partner.

"Creepy, more like", I shivered. The wind whistled through ancient arrow slits, high and low in uneven walls, jagged as rotten teeth. Moonlight seemed reluctant to penetrate the ruin; it's wavering presence through tiny windows failed to push away the inky throng of long-dead inhabitants.

Suddenly, this seemed like a very bad idea. "Let's go back...now!" I hissed, but my partner pushed me onwards and upwards until we stood on the battlements, looking out over Loch Awe, and the huge mountains encircling us.

Our wishing, quickly done, was sealed with a kiss. As I opened my eyes and looked down to the boat, I couldn't see George anywhere, but his voice cut suddenly through the biting wind.

"Let's be awa.., the weather'll no hold fur much langer".

Just as we reached the boat, we were plunged into darkness by long clouds that skittered across the moon's face. George had fixed a powerful halogen lamp at the bow of the boat, and it's beam cut a comforting, circular path as the boat laboured back towards the Inn.

We still had a good way to go, and the loch was so choppy that the spray from breaking waves drenched us. I held on to my partner for dear life, not wishing to start Christmas at the bottom of the loch, but he pushed me gently away.

"It's O.K. Hold my jacket over you, It'll stop you getting so wet", he shouted.

As the boat drew slowly past the mighty bulk of Ben Cruachan, the wind suddenly dropped and, as the moon came out, the outboard engine spluttered and died.

My partner climbed back to see if he could help, and I saw him give George the £150 that we had agreed for the trip. I don't know why he paid him then, but the money went into George's pocket quicker than a ferret. He was handing my partner one of the stowed oars, when I saw something behind us that froze me with terror. A huge fog bank rolled silently towards us, and was about to engulf the boat. I shouted to my partner, who was more intent on rowing, than listening. George stared straight through me, a half-smile on his lips. In an instant, the fog had swallowed us, and I huddled over the dimmed lamp for comfort.

After a while, I heard voices, though I couldn't make out what they were saying. In the muffled chaos human voices mingled with the sound of struggling, panicked animals, and though I believed that my prayers had been answered and that we were about to be rescued, a snake of panic twisted up my spine. Suddenly, with a loud cracking noise, the boat ploughed into the jetty and propelled me over the edge and onto the icy grass. I sat up carefully, wondering if I had any broken bones. Everything seemed fine until I called out to my partner, and his name just disappeared into the darkness. It was then that I realised that the boat was empty, and on the now-silver loch there was just a thin wisp of fog left, drifting away towards Dalavich. Of George and my partner, there was no trace. The star-studded skies had shrugged off the fog with their crisp coldness, and the moon shone harder and brighter than ever.

My shouts had been heard in reception, and from far away it seemed, I heard a door slam, then the receptionist gently propelled my into the warmth of the tiny library, where a log fire crackled and glowed.

"Tak a sip o' this, ye"ll feel better", she said anxiously, and pushed a large brandy into my shaking hands.

"They're out there, somewhere", I muttered, "Out in the fog - I can't find them".

Unable to quiet my ramblings, she finally left me alone, and I heard her pick up the phone and call for help.

As I went to put my glass on the table, I spotted a small book, bound in cream leather.

'Myths and Legends of Argyllshire', the ornately etched and gilded title proclaimed.

I ran a hand over the smooth leather cover, and opened the book. The library door clicked open, and I jumped further than I should have. Silhouetted in the doorway, the receptionist held up a hand.

"Sorry. The Polis'll nae be here 'till later", she whispered, "why din ye try t' rest?".

I shook my head, "I'd rather stay here".

Stooping to pick up a warm, tartan throw from an old settle, she crossed to my chair and draped the throw around my shoulders.

"As ye like, dear", she shrugged, and left the library.

I read of the many drovers too poor to be ferried across the loch, who had perished with their beasts on the crossing. In the sixteen hundreds there had been a local gillie called George Fergus, who had also died trying to save a young lad and his father. All three had drowned, and were believed to have joined countless poor souls thought to haunt the loch at Christmas time, looking for a safe haven for themselves and their cattle.

...In the bright, early morning, while children ripped open their presents and parents swallowed headache tablets, I walked the Loch-side in a daze. Police divers, drafted in from Glasgow, searched the waters for my partner and a gillie that none of the locals remembered.

I wished then, with all my heart, that we'd never braved the loch, and that my partner hadn't paid the ferryman.

Used by kind permission.

Dee Holt