The Stolen Voice by Pat McIntosh

thoughtfully. ‘What like were the people?’
    ‘Oh, fair folk, fair folk. Dressed as fine as fine, in silk-satin-velvet, all bright colours, all in green, all wi their bonnie ropes, and the bodach in a red doublet in their midst. Euan never saw them.’
    Now was that complete nonsense, or was there a grain of truth? Gil wondered.
    ‘And what way did they carry him off?’
    Another sly smile.
    ‘Och, is the maister saying he believes Euan?’
    ‘I do,’ said Gil. At least, he prevaricated, I believe he thought he saw something strange, probably involving ropes.
    The bent figure before him struck its grimy hands together and said joyfully, ‘It’s a many year since anyone was believing Euan! Och, he’ll be lighting a candle for the gentleman, so he will! Away south they took him, in a great whirl and noise, maister.’
    ‘South,’ repeated Gil, glancing at the sky. ‘Not westwards? Not up to the pass?’
    ‘South, they were going, maister,’ Euan reiterated. ‘And he was coming back from the south when he came home. Just last month, that would be, maister, and he’s in his own place over the hill now.’
    ‘How would you ken what way he came, you daft body?’ demanded Ned, from where he stood by the corner of the barn. ‘He cam down Glenbuckie, no Strathyre.’
    Euan turned his misshapen back on the man, and gave Gil a significant look.
    ‘He was in Strathyre afore he was in Glenbuckie, for Euan seen him.’
    ‘You saw him come back?’ said Gil. ‘When was that?’
    ‘Euan was watching when they set him down,’ Euan agreed in his creaking voice.
    ‘Tell me about that,’ said Gil, trying to conceal amazement. ‘What did you see?’
    ‘Och, little to tell. A great whirling and sound of horses, like the first time, and they set him down on the track yonder,’ he waved a hand southward, ‘and then they were off and left him standing there. There was no ropes, not a single one. But Euan saw the bodach , aye,’ he added, ‘all in his red velvet again.’
    ‘What way did the horses come?’ Gil asked.
    ‘There’s a track up this side o the loch,’ said Ned.
    ‘Why would those ones be using a track?’ objected Donal.
    ‘Euan never saw,’ said Euan sulkily. ‘Just they were there, and set the laddie down, and bade him Godspeed and gie’s your scrip, and send word if you want us, and then they went away. They went south,’ he added, turning again in order to glower at Donal.
    Gil held his breath, setting this story against his own speculations.
    ‘Did you speak to David?’ he asked gently. Euan turned back to consider him.
    ‘Aye,’ he said after a moment. ‘Euan was speaking to the laddie.’
    ‘What did you say to him?’ Gil prompted, and got another display of the purple gums.
    ‘Euan said, Billy’s no here, he couldny wait.’
    ‘Daft,’ muttered Tam at Gil’s elbow.
    ‘And what did David say to that?’ Gil asked.
    Careful questioning got him the substance of the exchange. David Drummond had known Euan, had addressed him by his name, and then said that thirty years was a long time for Billy to wait and enquired if his friend was well. Euan had given him the news of Drumyre and its folk, which Gil suspected would have taken some time, and then David, asking if the way over the pass was still fit to use, had extracted himself with what was obviously tact and charm and set off up the side of the burn. Euan seemed in no doubt that he had been speaking to Billy Murray’s friend.
    ‘How easy is the way over to Glenbuckie?’ Gil asked. ‘Could I find it?’
    Euan emitted a wheezing noise which seemed to be a laugh.
    ‘No, no, maister could never take it,’ he said kindly, ‘no wi a great horsie to drag along the path. The horsie would fall down and be hurtit,’ he explained.
    ‘He’s right at that,’ commented Ned. ‘It’s a track for a man afoot, no for a powny. But it’s no so difficult to make out, and it’s an easy enough walk down to Dalriach from the crown o the