Haunted Scotland by Roddy Martine Page B

of the
scene, he somehow failed to notice the steep bank of mist building up, untouched by the moon’s reflection.
    Immersed in the moment, Jack breathed in the spectacle, oblivious to the shadows that were swallowing the shoreline. ‘Nights like this should be cherished,’ he muttered to himself,regretful that he was on his own. Overhead, he could see Jupiter and Saturn. He wished that he knew more about astronomy. On a night such as this, it was as if every star in
the sky had come out for his benefit alone.
    As such thoughts preoccupied him, two large horses unexpectedly loomed out of the darkness, their necks held down with rope and flickering lanterns swinging seaward from their backs.
    Jack stepped back open-mouthed as they lumbered past, accompanied by the heavy figure of a man. Out at sea yet another light soon appeared, faint then flaring sharply as it moved swiftly towards
the coast.
    The crash, when it came, was chilling; a huge, splintering blast accompanied by an eerie scream of voices. From the cliff edge, Jack momentarily caught a glimpse of the fractured hulk of a
sailing ship. Deeply shaken by the sight, he turned on his heels and raced back to the farmhouse to summon help.
    When at last he burst into the front parlour, he found the farmer and his wife ensconced in front of their television. They listened patiently as he outlined the full horror of what had
occurred. ‘There’s been a terrible accident. I think it’s a shipwreck,’ he blurted out. ‘We’ve got to get help.’
    The farmer’s wife glanced anxiously at her husband. ‘Best call the coastguard or best not?’ she murmured calmly, with a trace of resignation in her voice.
    The farmer rose grudgingly from his comfy armchair and pulled on his jacket. ‘Best have a look first,’ he said grumpily.
    As Jack retraced his movements it was clear the farmer was unimpressed. The mist had by now dispersed and in the moonlight it was once again possible to make out the features of the shoreline.
Jack had expected to hear more cries for help but the only sound to be heard was the hush of the surf.
    ‘It was down there,’ he said excitedly, pointing towards the cove.
    The farmer shook his head. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it tonight,’ he said.
    Jack was speechless. ‘But it was terrible,’ he protested. ‘We’ve got to do something. People were drowning.’
    ‘What exactly did you see?’ asked the farmer, sharply rounding on him. ‘Was it a wee sailing yacht or one of those big cabin cruisers? Look away down there by the rocks. The
tide’s gone way beyond them. There’s nothing there now. It’ll have been the Pagans you saw the night, and they’re long gone.’
    Jack stared at him in bewilderment. ‘What do you mean, it was the Pagans I saw?’
    ‘Come away to the house, and I’ll explain,’ said the farmer.
    On reaching the farmhouse, Jack reluctantly followed the old man into the kitchen where, not too reluctantly, he accepted a tumbler of single malt.
    ‘Long ago in the days of merchant shipping, the sea traffic from the trade routes of Scotland to England and the Low Countries – Holland and Belgium – all of it passed this
way,’ the farmer began. ‘In that time there lived hereabouts a colony of ungodly souls. Fowk were feared of them and called them the Pagans of Scoughall. Land pirates they were. On
stormy nights, when the haar rolled in, they preyed on passing ships.
    ‘On stormy nights, the men led their horses out onto the cliffs and marched them back and forth with lanterns tied to their necks. Ships far out on the ocean would catch sight of the
lights and, thinking them boats at anchor, turn landward for shelter. Many a poor mariner came to grief on those rocks. Come the dawn, the Pagans claimed their spoils.’
    ‘But surely nothing like that goes on nowadays?’ said Jack, incredulous. The farmer and his wife looked at him in pity.
    ‘Not the now,’ said the farmer. ‘But you’ll no’