much longer my frayed nerves were going to last out.
I took coffee and toast out onto the patio and sat there, getting damp in the fog being preferable to being indoors with the drumming. A pair of sparrows came down and waited for me to drop some crumbs, but even they seemed somehow dull and puppet-like, almost parodies of their former excitable selves. The stoat still glared at me with a frozen, dead stare, as if I had been at fault for the vagaries of the weather that had brought its doom, and the waters of the loch lapped listlessly against the rocks.
No limbs, no limbs, no head, no head, left arm gone, left leg gone, no legs, no head.
My phone rang while I was drinking my coffee but I didn’t answer—the caller ID said it was Alan, and he’d just want to know what I was planning for the festivities. I had no plans, beyond going slowly crazy and drinking what little booze I had left in the house, but if I told him that, he’d only try to get me to go to a party, and I was in no fit state to face polite, or even impolite, company.
I finished the coffee and, rather than go back inside, took a stroll down to the shore. I was thinking of the summer, and the glorious day out on the water fishing. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and felt like a story someone had told me rather than something I had experienced. I knew the details, but I couldn’t conjure up any of the emotions—the magic had gone, been sucked out of me by the rhythm. I came to a halt at the realization, wondering how I had got so jaded, so quickly.
The drumbeat got louder—the volume control on the stereo had just been twisted, and the house pounded out the rhythm at my back, faster now, more insistent, an imperative I could not ignore.
I felt it, throbbing even through the soles of my feet. I looked down.
I stood on the rubble, right on top of the old root cellar of the crofter’s cottage. The beat got louder still, pounding like a fist against my skull, jarring every bone in my body as it came up from below.
There was one last repeated eight, then it cut off, as if someone indoors had pulled the plug.
I looked down at my feet again. The rubble had been loosened, and I had sunk a good six inches into a new hollow over the top of the cellar.
I had just got another message.
* * *
I wasted no time in getting started, and at first it was simple enough. By kneeling at the side of the cellar I could bend, lift a stone or handful of pebbles, and toss them over my shoulder onto the shore, some of them even getting as far as the water where my digging was accompanied by infrequent splashes. But after only ten minutes of that my shoulders ached, my fingers were numb and frozen, and dampness soaked my trousers from ankle to thigh. And I had barely made a dent in the rubble that choked the cellar. I was going to be of no use at all if I developed hypothermia.
Reluctantly, I stood and made for the house, casting glances over my shoulder, expecting to see her standing there, waiting for my return.
I dressed more appropriately—my painting overalls over the top of dry trousers and shirt, gloves and hat, and extra-thick socks under my walking boots. Even as I did so, I was aware it was stupid to even contemplate what I intended in the middle of an island winter—but the last message had been forceful, and my fingers already itched to be drumming. As I said before—I had little conscious choice in the matter.
When I went back out I took a skillet and a heavy-duty pan with me—I didn’t have a spade, and I couldn’t think of anything else I could use to any great effect. The skillet did indeed work very well at first. I made good progress in excavating a hole almost a foot deep, but by this time it was already obvious it was going to be a long, dirty job; rubble and gravel clogged the cellar, and was frozen solid in places, running wet damp in others. It was heavy work, and my arms ached far too quickly. I was driven inside in the early afternoon in
I took coffee and toast out onto the patio and sat there, getting damp in the fog being preferable to being indoors with the drumming. A pair of sparrows came down and waited for me to drop some crumbs, but even they seemed somehow dull and puppet-like, almost parodies of their former excitable selves. The stoat still glared at me with a frozen, dead stare, as if I had been at fault for the vagaries of the weather that had brought its doom, and the waters of the loch lapped listlessly against the rocks.
No limbs, no limbs, no head, no head, left arm gone, left leg gone, no legs, no head.
My phone rang while I was drinking my coffee but I didn’t answer—the caller ID said it was Alan, and he’d just want to know what I was planning for the festivities. I had no plans, beyond going slowly crazy and drinking what little booze I had left in the house, but if I told him that, he’d only try to get me to go to a party, and I was in no fit state to face polite, or even impolite, company.
I finished the coffee and, rather than go back inside, took a stroll down to the shore. I was thinking of the summer, and the glorious day out on the water fishing. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and felt like a story someone had told me rather than something I had experienced. I knew the details, but I couldn’t conjure up any of the emotions—the magic had gone, been sucked out of me by the rhythm. I came to a halt at the realization, wondering how I had got so jaded, so quickly.
The drumbeat got louder—the volume control on the stereo had just been twisted, and the house pounded out the rhythm at my back, faster now, more insistent, an imperative I could not ignore.
I felt it, throbbing even through the soles of my feet. I looked down.
I stood on the rubble, right on top of the old root cellar of the crofter’s cottage. The beat got louder still, pounding like a fist against my skull, jarring every bone in my body as it came up from below.
There was one last repeated eight, then it cut off, as if someone indoors had pulled the plug.
I looked down at my feet again. The rubble had been loosened, and I had sunk a good six inches into a new hollow over the top of the cellar.
I had just got another message.
* * *
I wasted no time in getting started, and at first it was simple enough. By kneeling at the side of the cellar I could bend, lift a stone or handful of pebbles, and toss them over my shoulder onto the shore, some of them even getting as far as the water where my digging was accompanied by infrequent splashes. But after only ten minutes of that my shoulders ached, my fingers were numb and frozen, and dampness soaked my trousers from ankle to thigh. And I had barely made a dent in the rubble that choked the cellar. I was going to be of no use at all if I developed hypothermia.
Reluctantly, I stood and made for the house, casting glances over my shoulder, expecting to see her standing there, waiting for my return.
I dressed more appropriately—my painting overalls over the top of dry trousers and shirt, gloves and hat, and extra-thick socks under my walking boots. Even as I did so, I was aware it was stupid to even contemplate what I intended in the middle of an island winter—but the last message had been forceful, and my fingers already itched to be drumming. As I said before—I had little conscious choice in the matter.
When I went back out I took a skillet and a heavy-duty pan with me—I didn’t have a spade, and I couldn’t think of anything else I could use to any great effect. The skillet did indeed work very well at first. I made good progress in excavating a hole almost a foot deep, but by this time it was already obvious it was going to be a long, dirty job; rubble and gravel clogged the cellar, and was frozen solid in places, running wet damp in others. It was heavy work, and my arms ached far too quickly. I was driven inside in the early afternoon in
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