trekked into Melrose, it was apparent it was going to be a fine spring day. The sky was blue and cloudless; in the sun it was beautifully warm, but with an exhilarating crispness from that faint underlying chill that was always present at that time of year that far north. But not even the fair weather could mitigate the desperate anticipation they all felt.
They picked up the van and drove to a 24-hour garage. 'Everything looks normal,' Church said. 'But here's the moment of truth.'
They all watched anxiously as Ruth darted inside to buy a paper. She picked one up, scanned the date, but her face gave nothing away. By the time she had clambered back into the van, the others couldn't contain themselves. 'Well?' Veitch almost shouted.
Ruth held out the paper. 'It's Mayday. Today's the day.'
There was a long moment of silence until Church said, 'Do we still have time to reach Dunvegan?'
'It is less than a day's drive,' Shavi replied. 'Unless we encounter any obstacles.'
His words hung in the air for a second or two, and then they launched themselves into frantic activity. Veitch ran back into the garage to load up with sandwiches and crisps while Church selected a cheap portable radio to replace the one they had lost with their old van.
Once they were on the road, he swept through the bands, but the radio could only tune into a disappointing handful of stations. There was one playing classical music, another with easy listening tracks and one which concentrated on old pop and rock back-to-back, punctuated by the occasional jingle, but with no DJ in evidence. The jaunty sound of The Turtles' 'Happy Together' rang out.
'Spare us the sickening optimism,' Laura moaned. 'I could do with some jungle or techno or anything with a beat to clear my head out.'
'At least it's not Sinatra,' Ruth said.
'Bit of a coincidence that we emerged with just enough time to spare,' Church noted. He caught Tom's eye and mouthed, 'There are no coincidences,' just as Tom started to spout his mantra. The others laughed; Tom looked irritable.
'So what's this Beltane?' Veitch asked.
'The great festival of light in the Celtic world,' Tom replied moodily. 'It's the midpoint of the Celtic year. In the old days, the people used to offer tributes to Belenus, the god of sun, light and warmth, to mark the onset of summer, the return of the sun's heat and the fertility of the land.'
'But why's today so important as a deadline? It's just a day like any other one.'
Tom opened a bag of cheese and onion crisps and began to munch on them with irritating slowness. Out of the corner of his eye, Church could see Laura glancing around for something to throw at him. 'Imbolg, Beltane, Lughnasad and Samhain-the four great Celtic festivals-weren't just chosen at random,' he said with his mouth full. 'They were of vital importance to the gods, when all of reality was so aligned that power flowed back and forth between Otherworld and here. On those days it was like the whole of the universe was filled with a charge. Days when anything could happen.'
'So if we miss out today we've got to wait until the next festival?' Veitch asked.
Tom nodded. 'And by then it will be too late.'
Despite the momentous events that lay ahead, Church found himself feeling surprisingly bright. It wasn't hard to guess why: in just a few short hours he would finally get the answers he had prayed for during the bitter months when his life had seemed to be over, although the why had now been replaced by who. He could barely contain his anticipation, yet behind it he felt the cold, hard core which he knew was a desire for retribution just waiting to be unleashed. Closing his eyes, he drifted along with The Beach Boys singing 'Wouldn't It Be Nice.' If only he could get warm.
They took the A72 out of Galashiels, then swung north to Edinburgh, crossing the Firth of Forth to pick up the M90. They selected the major routes, both for speed and to keep away from the more desolate areas, but as they hit Perth, where the map showed fewer and fewer signs of population, they knew they were drawing into dangerous territory.
After passing Dalwhinnie, they steeled themselves and set off across country. Up in the hills the air was crystal clear and filled with the scent of pines. They passed barely a car and any traffic they did see appeared to be local; farmers in beat-up old bangers splattered with primer, or old ladies taking the air, driving excruciatingly slow. An eerie stillness lay over the whole landscape.
As they progressed further into the Highlands, Church felt the biting cold ness in his chest begin to grow more intense, as if someone were driving an icicle into his heart. A corresponding sweat sprang out on his forehead. Slipping his hand into his pocket and touching the Roisin Dubh, he felt as if he had plunged his hand into snow. When he drew it partly out, away from the eyes of the others, he saw its delicate petals were now obscured by hoar frost that sparkled when it caught the light; it was almost too cold to touch. And the iciness seemed to be spreading from the rose deep into his body; it felt like it was consuming him. He knew he should tell the others, but the cold seemed to have numbed his brain. He fumbled with Marianne's locket, vaguely hoping it would make him feel better. Then he slipped the flower back into his pocket and tried to ignore the alarm bell that was starting to toll sonorously, deep in his mind.
They crossed the country without incident, and after following the placid, picturesque waters of Loch Lochy for a short spell, they picked up the A87 which would take them directly to Kyle of Lochalsh, the crossing point for Skye.
But as they trundled along the edge of Loch Cluanie, Shavi noticed a column of black smoke rising from an area beyond a steep bank just off the road. Although wary of stopping, once the acrid stink permeated the van it brought with it such an overwhelming sense of unease that they felt an obligation to pull over to investigate. While Veitch scrambled up the bank, the others watched from the van. They knew their worst fears had been confirmed when they saw him grow rigid at the summit. For several moments he stared at what lay beyond and then, without turning, he waved a hand for them to follow. Outside, the smell of oily smoke was choking and the air was filled with the screeching of birds. Cautiously they climbed the bank.
Stretched out in a large field was a scene of utter carnage. Scattered as far as the eye could see were the dead bodies of hundreds of soldiers, some of them mutilated beyond recognition, the churned turf of the field dyed red with their blood. It was like some horrific mediaeval battlefield. The carrion birds were already feeding on the remains with greedy shrieks and frenzied pecking. The smoke was billowing up from the remains of a burnt-out truck or troop carrier.
'They didn't stand a chance.' Veitch's voice trembled with emotion.
As they returned to the van in silence, Veitch pulled out his gun, examined it for a second, then tossed it away.
It was several miles before they could bring themselves to discuss what they had seen.
'At least we can be sure the Government knows. There's some kind of resistance,' Ruth ventured.
'For what it's worth.' Church hugged himself for warmth. 'All those modern weapons, all those experts in the art of warfare, they didn't mean a thing. There wasn't one enemy body there.'
'So what chance do we have if a bunch of professional killers can't cut the mustard?' Laura was wearing her sunglasses once again, hiding her true emotions from them all.
'You want to know what's worse?' Veitch said quietly. 'That they're obviously somewhere between us and where we're supposed to be going, settled in to a nice defensive position.'
'We have to keep going,' Ruth said. 'What else can we do?'
They fell silent once more.
They saw the smoke from fifteen miles away. They had probably noticed it earlier and mistaken it for a storm cloud, so large was the black column; it rose up thickly and rolled out to obscure the sun. At ten miles Shavi had to use the windscreen wipers and spray continuously to clear away the charred flakes caught in the wind.
'Black snow,' Laura said absently. 'Trippy.'
The atmosphere became unbearable as they neared the coast; even in the confines of the van they were coughing and covering their mouths. Then, as they crested a ridge and looked out over the sea, they saw the source. Kyle of Lochalsh, the tiny historic town that guarded the crossing to Skye, was burning. From their vantage point, they could see almost every building was ablaze, painting the lapping waves burnt orange and smoky red. It was almost deafening: the roaring of the flames caught by the wind, the sound of dropped milk crates as superheated windows erupted out, the thunder of crashing walls, every now and then punctuated by an explosion
