Macgregor was inside the house, the door scraped forward so that the others could only see his outline in the gloom as he peered round it. Any second he might force the door shut. Peter glanced at Charles, the big man’s usually ruddy complexion had paled slightly. He sensed himself trembling. Which was ridiculous, these were the ramblings of a senile farmer who, anywhere else, would have been committed to a geriatric hospital. Yet, it was the expression in those eyes, the sheer terror, which rooted them to the step, the power of the Ancient Mariner reborn in a remote valley.
‘Aye,’ Macgregor's voice was a throaty whisper, ‘they screamed for maybe ten seconds and I heard the splashings, the threshings, of whatever it was that got them. Then there was just silence. I came back home and nobody has ever heard o’ my father or Ferguson since. The ghillies went to look for ‘em the next day, but there was nothing. I’ve no bin up to the Moss since, but I’ll no go agin. Ever!’
The door finally scrapped shut and they heard a bolt being forced into place, the old man shuffling away into his hermit abode. ‘Well, that’s that!’ Charles spoke with a quaver. ‘If you go up on the Moss something will get you and you’ll never be heard of again.’
‘They probably fell into a bog,’ Peter tried to speak louder than a whisper but somehow his vocal cords refused to function fully.
‘Just as we might without a guide. So we go back to the hotel, get paralytic in the bar, and drive all the way back to London tomorrow!’ Charles’s tone was scathing, trying to bolster his waning courage. ‘What a bloody waste of time and money!’ He consulted his watch. ‘Believe it or not, even if this landscape has the appearance of dusk, it is just after ten o’ clock in the morning. We have a full eleven hours of daylight...well, gloom, before us. Come on, Peter, a crazy old shepherd wouldn’t have deterred us in the old days and, damn it, we’re not fifty yet. Let’s give it a go. We’ll go up to the Moss and take care to keep a firm ground. And, you never know, this low cloud might clear. Another couple of hours and we could be sweltering in blistering August sunshine!’ He tried to laugh but it was spoiled by an uncontrollable gulp.
It was a steep climb up Mankwill hill. Remus, the Labrador, forged ahead, kept returning and staring quizzically at his human companions, mutely urging them to hurry. There were innumerable sheep tracks through the thick heather, all leading upwards, criss crossing, veering to both left and right. So long as one continued in an upward direction, Charles decided, they were bound to emerge on the Moss above eventually.
He recalled the place from the map which Stewart had sent him, a kind of plateau amidst the mountains. Like the agent had said, albeit jokingly, if those mountains had been removed they would doubtless have looked down upon the waters of Loch Ness on a clear day. The Loch could not have been more than a mile away, as the crow flies. And, as if to taunt his thoughts, a hooded crow cawed from somewhere up ahead.
They came to a patch of slippery scree, rocks draped with lichen and then, without warning, the land levelled. The mist had thinned temporarily, they could see maybe a hundred yards.
Scrubland, patches of heather dotted with stunted silver birch and rowans, clumps of gorse. Remus came back to them, whined with a renewed eagerness. They had reached their hunting ground at last.
‘What a strange place,’ Peter unslung his Purdey, opened the breech and slid in a couple of cartridges. ‘Who would expect to find a stretch of flat like this up here?’
‘There’s sure to be blackgame here,’ Charles loaded his own gun, his enthusiasm had returned. A bird or two in the bag and to hell with the weather, their feeling of satisfaction would be all the greater because of the difficulties they had surmounted.
‘Let’s start walking it up slowly, keep in sight of each other. And watch out for the boggy ground.’
‘I think Macgregor’s story was pure fantasy,’ Peter spoke loudly as if he had to convince himself as much as his companion. ‘That Ferguson chap and Macgregor’s father probably didn't even fall into a bog. They’re probably both buried in the local churchyard. All the same we’ll watch where we tread.’
Ten minutes later a blackcock clattered out of a clump of birch. Peter’s shot was a clear miss, Charles dropped it stone dead with his second barrel, thumped it onto the springy heather where Remus retrieved it seconds later.
‘Bravo,’ Peter called, ejecting a spent shell.
The mist was threatening to close in again as if to protect the wildlife of this forgotten mountain habitat. Charles licked his lips, you could taste the damned stuff, like stagnant water coating your palette. And his body was chilling beneath his barbour jacket in spite of their recent exertions. Not just the mist and the dank odour, something else... the stillness. Saplings dripped depressingly, even the crow had fallen silent. He shivered again. Thank God for Peter’s double shot, the reports blanketed by dense low cloud which crept across the moorland, but nevertheless the shots were a welcome sound.
‘Missed the devil!’ Peter was temporarily out of sight but he sounded close. ‘Should have had the bugger!’ Charles looked around, peered into the grey opaqueness. Where had that darned dog got to? Chasing after the unscathed blackcock, probably, and likely to flush more out of sight. He stopped to listen but there was no sound of a dog crashing around in the undergrowth.
‘Where’s Remus got to?’ He called out to Peter. The reply seemed distant, as though it floated back from beyond the next range of mountains.
‘Haven’t seen him
