| January Vault |
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From the January Vault.......... Here's a story that appeared in "Dark Horizons" inspired by a story I heard about a stone that had been uncovered on Skye, which seemed to shown a face on one side, except it was a different face every time a different person looked at it.
THE STONE GOD "Staying up at the youth hostel?" Dawson asked as he finished drying another glass which he placed on the shelf above the bar. The young man nodded and took a sip from his pint. So much for conversation, thought Dawson. Still a quiet customer was better than no customer at all,although things weren't that bad, not yet. A few of his regulars were over in the corner, playing dominoes with such intensity that you'd think their lives depended on it. Dawson looked at the clock knowing they wouldn't be here much longer, not when night started to reach out across the sky. Then they'd be off, scurrying to their homes to hide behind looked door and drawn curtains. "Fools," he muttered. "Pardon me?" He looked at the young man who had a light beard and pale skin. Scandinavian, he guessed, from appearance. He got all sorts during the summer, traipsing over the hill from the youth hostel. Dawson smiled. "I was just talking to myself." And I will be all night if you don't order another, he thought, watching the young man as he downed the last of his pint. "A pint of lager, please." "Certainly." Dawson pulled the tap and looked out the window. Where blue sky was turning black. The scrape of chairs across the floor made him look to the corner. His regulars were leaving. Sandy Clark placed the box of dominoes on the bar. "Night, Alec." "Night, Sandy." "Night." "Night." He watched as the door closed leaving him alone with the stranger. At least they still came here, he supposed. Changing the name of the pub hadn't changed that. They might be superstitious, even scared, but that wouldn't get in the way of them having a pint and a short, not when the next pub was in Campbelltown, almost twelve miles away at the end of a single track road. "You're not very busy," the young man pointed out. Dawson nodded. "It's lucky I don't have to rely on the locals trade or I'd have closed down months ago." "Do you get many tourists?" Dawson didn't reply. He wasn't listening to the question, or the words. He was listening to the voice that carried them. A voice from the island's off Scotland. He knew that lilt. But what island, he wondered. South Uist? Skye? Mull? He decided not to ask, hoping to hear some more, then impress the lad with a correct guess. He shook his head. "Sorry, I was woolgathering. What did you say?" "I said sis you get many tourists?" "Some. Mainly hikers, or climbers staying at the youth hostel. The real tourists come during the day to see the face then drive off again." "That's why you changed the name of the pub, because of the face?" The question surprised Dawson, and he didn't like being surprised. "How did you know I had changed the name?" The young man shrugged. "I read they only found the face about a year ago, and your sign looked new." Dawson almost laughed at himself for his worry. "That's right. The pub used to be called ‘The Jumping Stag' because of all the hunting that went on in the area. I thought I'd cash in on the discovery of the stone. I mean it's all we're famous for now." "But some people don't like the stone." Dawson grunted. "Some people are stupid." He lifted a glass and poured himself a nip. "Some people have never set foot outside the village." "Like the woman who runs the wee post office?" "Exactly," said Dawson. "She says the stone comes from pagan times, and is a thing of the devil that should be broken up into little pieces then thrown off the bridge into the river." The young man gripped the railing that stretched along the length of the bar. "No, that mustn't happen." "Why not?" "Because it's a rare thing from long ago, it's unique." "Exactly." Dawson repeated. "Even when the folks from Glasgow University wanted to take it away for tests they voted to stop them doing it. Most of my neighbours fear the thing, some even loath it, but they want to keep it too. Better we look after it than other folks, or so they say. Some people just can't make up their minds." "I want to see it," the young man said. "Well, that's easily done. Take the path that -" "You don't understand. I want to see it up close. I want to touch it." Dawson leaned back. Oh, no, this was one of those hippy types. Flower power. Magic toadstools. All that sort of thing. He'd seen them on the telly around the longest day of the year. What was it called? Summer solstice, something like that. Hundreds of them heading towards Stonehenge. He shook his head and looked at the clock. I'll close up early, tell him I'm not feeling well. "I'm afraid I can't help you. The stone face is closed to the public. I mean you can see it, but you can't get close. There's a face and a gate which is kept locked." "But you have the key," the young man said softly. "How did you know that?" "I asked the woman in the post office. She told me you were on the community council." "That's true, but I can't unlock the gate, and I certainly can't have you doing things to the stone." The young man smiled, a knowing smile, thought Dawson, watching him bend down and swing a small rucksack onto the bar. "I only want to take a rubbing from it." "A rubbing?" "Yes." The young man's grin was lop-sided. "It's a hobby of mine." He reached into the rucksack and took out some tracing paper, pencils and several pieces of charcoal. "Please." "Well I don't know," said Dawson, then thought, what the hell. There were worse hobbies than this one, and if he said no, then the young man would go away, and leave him alone in the pub. "Alright, just let me lock up." The stone was uncovered on the hill above the village, higher than the church, and that wasn't right, some said. It was as if God was in the shadow of this pagan thing from long ago. Dawson led the way, already sweating, his heart already thumping, like the pulse in either wrist. He was walking as quick as he could, which wasn't very fast and could feel the young man's eagerness behind him, pressing against him, pushing him on. "There," he rasped, pointing. The young man dodged ahead, then stopped. "Why did you put the fence up?" To keep the devil in, Dawson almost said. That's what the old ones would whisper to each other. "To protect it," he replied. "Until we decide what to do with it." "You'd think it was a wild beast," the young man said. "Or dangerous, like electricity." Dawson took out his keys. The one that opened the gate had a piece of masking tape around the top. The key turned reluctantly, as if to give him one last chance to turn away. Nonsense, he told himself, while wondering if the gate had been opened since the fence went up. He didn't know, but felt certain it had never been opened at night, and not in the company of a stranger - an outsider some would say. The gate shrieked as he pulled it back. Dawson shuddered, blood turning cold. He yanked the gate fully open. He looked at the hole in the ground, staring until his eyes adjusted to the lack of light. Even in the dark he could make out the face on the round stone. The closed eyes, long nose, smiling mouth. "Is it supposed to be the sun?" he asked outloud. "Cruagh," the young man sighed. "What?" "His name is Cruagh, the Stone God, the Eternal One." "How do you know that?" "Because he was worshiped in the isles, in my home in particular. The Stone God, eternal like the rocks. Here before us. Here after us." Dawson stared at the face, of a God, he now knew. A cruel God, because wasn't that face a little bit harsh, looking up at him with contempt, as if he were nothing?" "I've never heard of him," Dawson admitted. "That's not surprising," said the young man. "Columba tried to stamp out his worship centuries ago, and failed. But his disciple, Dominic, succeeded with his Old Testament ways." "Old Testament?" "The Christian God is the only true God and all other's must be destroyed, so Dominic lured Cruagh down into his great statue, and broke it into pieces, dispersing them across the land. And this - " the young man reached out but did not touch the stone. " - is the last piece. It took a long time for the news to reach us." "Why? Where do you live?" "Bellpoint, off St. Kilda." Dawson nodded and backed away slowly. Of course he had heard of Bellpoint. A remote, bleak, place whose inhabitants were to be moved off the Island, just like these on St. Kilda. But the people of Bellpoint fought against the navy. Many were killed, many were taken, and a few supposedly escaped and stayed on in that harsh, lonely place, living off sea-birds that nested on the cliffs. They survived by inter-breading, brother with sister, father with daughter; a sure way to madness. The young man reached into his rucksack, and took out something. "What's that?" Dawson asked. "Come closer and see." "No," he turned. "Come closer," the young man insisted. A hand pulled Dawson round, and forward, into something sharp that ripped open his belly and tore up, up, towards his heart. Then the young man held him over the hole, as the blood and guts fell out of him. All he could feel was the coldness of the night. All he ever saw again were the eyes of the Stone God - opening. |