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'I don't object to you wasting your own time, but I don't see why you have to waste mine as well,' Peter said, continuing
the petulant complaints which had continued sporadically ever since we'd mooted to end our holiday with the expedition.
'You can always get the train home, Peter,' I replied, knowing full well he couldn't afford.
'Or hitch-hike,' David laughed.
'I don't have the money left for a train. Mind you, considering that to get to this place we're going to have to make
a huge diversion, I imagine the petrol will cost just as much, even between the three of us.'
'We'll make up the extra,' offered David, 'considering that it is us two who are so bothered about going.'
'You do know it doesn't exist, don't you? We're going to traipse across miles of unpathed desolation in search of a
stone, which is nothing more than a legend,' Peter stated, revealing the dearth of imagination that marked him out as a science
student.
'It might exist,' I objected, 'There are records. We wouldn't bother if we seriously believed we had no hope of finding
it.'
'The only "record" was written by a man who alleged to have been lead to it by a superstitious shepherd,
but on trying to find it himself later miserably failed and hence couldn't possibly explain to anyone else where it was. It's
hardly concrete proof.'
'He was a serious historian,' David said.
'A serious historian writing a book on pagan survivals in Scotland. Let's face it, he did have a vested interest in
this Hag Stone existing.'
'Well even if it doesn't, it's a good story,' I said, 'I wish those Christian wreckers hadn't ruined our religious
heritage. Christianity's so dull and self-righteous compared to stories about haunted standing stones. If we'd kept our own
legends, I don't think I'd be so atheistic.'
'You wouldn't catch me worshipping some stupid witch who causes my friends to lose all semblance of reason, and delay
going home with a trek into the middle of nowhere,' Peter continued being objectionable.
'Don't mock, Peter. She'll come and get you in the night for saying that about her,' David jested.
'She doesn't exist, and nor does this bloody stone. Face the facts. We have to leave at five o'clock in the morning,
and drive almost a hundred miles out of our way before we even get there. There are no paths, and you only have the vaguest
idea of where to actually look. It's probably a huge bog and I bet it's going to piss it down.'
'Shut up and go to sleep. After all, we've got an early start,' David said.
I've often considered that emphasising a need for sleep is a dangerous practice. Knowing you must get up early, and
that without a "good nights sleep" you're going to exhausted, always has an adverse effect. I certainly become so
obsessed with the need to get to sleep that it becomes impossible to do so. In this instance, such was the case. Following
an eventual mutual agreement to shut up and actually make an effort towards slumber, I lay awake for some considerable time.
Peter had probably been right about the rain. At least, it was pouring down now and in these places it never abated for endless
days and boundless miles. The drops drummed against the tent with persistence, mocking the silence of the landscape. Nor was
the rhythm soothing in its familiarity, one minute beating on the tent canvas as if to get in, the next creeping about it
with a stealthy patter. It came and went with the rising of the wind, which occasionally caught the sheets and made them course
with spectral billowing.
Any sleep I managed occurred between midnight and three o'clock, but it was not of the sort which brings rest. It flinched
from the prospect of its premature curtailment, and several times I found myself awake staring at the shifting shadows on
the wind beaten canvas, and listening to the pulsing of the rain, convinced that it was the hour to depart upon our adventure.
Then, only to drift again into that half-waking state, confused by a meaningless dreaming, which left no recollection but
an impression of urgency. This finally came to an abrupt end at that hour in the morning, when to be awake fills most men
with despair. It is the only time when I have known myself to crave the company of others as a necessity rather than a commodity.
You are alone with your thoughts, which like a cat, roam nocturnally into ever darker, unexplored recesses.
Despite seeing from my watch that it was a couple of hours before we were supposed to be up, I knew that I would not
know sleep again that night. Whilst all outside was chill, I had awoken damp with sweat and the stale air of the tent suffocated
me. I longed to climb outside and quench myself with the vigour of the wind, yet feared not lest I disturb my companions whose
repose I envied. However, after minutes of staring blankly into the pale darkness, it occurred to me that the repeated shifting
of Peter was not that of sleep. Instead, it was typical of that search to regain the elusive comfort in which sleep would
blossom.
'Peter,' I began softly, 'Are you awake?'
'No.'
'Come on. I'm never going to get back, and nor are you. It's only an hour and a half before the alarm goes off.'
'You're right I suppose,' Peter acquiesced, 'What woke you?'
'I was too hot, and I suppose I'm a bit eager. What about you, I don't imagine you're quite so anxious for the off?'
Peter hesitated for a second, as if pondering whether to admit to something, 'I guess it was the heat as well.'
'We might as well begin packing up. That way we ought to be able to make an earlier start,' I said.
'What about him? We don't want to wake him,' Peter nodded at David.
'He is already awake, thank you,' David's voice emerged muffled from the depths of his sleeping bag.
I did not consider it strange that we were all awake some time before it was necessary. It did not seem unusual considering
the conditions within the tent, which was oppressive despite its size. For myself, I suspected that the same instinct which
can sometimes wake you up on time without the use of an alarm, was over-zealous in its anticipation of the day ahead. It was
a feeling I recollected from birthdays and Christmas Eve as a child, waking up hours before the dawn, sure that the time for
fulfillment had come. At least on this occasion I was spared the long, listless hours, stifling my pent-up enthusiasm, waiting
for the lethargy of night to depart from the world.
True to my suggestion, we had taken the tent down by half past four. This was accomplished with some considerable amount
of difficult in the restrictive gloom. It was an ongoing battle against the wind, whilst becoming progressively more soaked
with that insidious drizzle. All this had to be carried out in strained whispers, as whilst there was only one other tent
on the site some distance away, in such a place and at such a time sound carried like a plague. However, as soon as David
started the decrepit engine of the car and the silence was invaded by a cacophony of chugging, I saw a light flicker on and
shadows flare on the shimmering blue sheets of the one man tent. As the car crawled through the churning mud around the gate,
I looked back longingly at the security of that illumination as we pushed on into the enveloping night. The ease with which
darkness could be held at bay in the refuge of civilisation is too often taken for granted. Then, and evermore, I perceived
the light of dawn on the horizon to be as distant a prospect as that electric glow was a dimming memory.
With an inevitably the dawn came, as we drove past silhouetted mountains and opaque lochs. Nonetheless, it crept up
and the seam between night and day was rendered invisible, so little distinction was there between the darkness and the murky
drear. The conditions of the preceding hours had not abated. Wind rattled the aged car, and rain assaulted the windscreen
with a vigour the wipers could do little to combat. The whole atmosphere within was clammy, and condensation smoked the windows.
This lent to the mounting nausea I felt, together the endlessly winding roads jarring my balance as I stared down at the map,
slowly guiding us to our destination. I yearned to see some wayside cafe, a sanctuary of warmth, electric lighting and coffee.
Moreover, I wished for some chattering company, rather than the gaunt faces of my companions, haggard through lack of sleep
and locked in weary silence.
The glen for which we were bound is steeped in vestiges of archaeology and half-remembered tradition. The reality of
this struck me on entrance to the valley, over a road pass flanked on each side by engulfing avenues of woodland, protecting
the place from the uncouth march of progress. But besides these natural guardians, were more human battlements. I could see
one now, a ringed tumble of stone known as a dun and probably dating back to the Iron Age. This one I noticed, had a rowan
tree erupting from its very centre, another sign of the wealth of folkloric belief which bedecked this remote valley in the
Grampians. It was heartening to see also, that across this mythical place, the elements had come to rest. For whilst stratus
mists still hooded the mountains, the glen stretching before us was free from the torrents which seemed to afflict the rest
of the country. In some places even, the clouds had taken on that translucent hue which suggests the sun is preparing to burn
through their occlusion. On the other hand, the wind still ravaged the land, perhaps more so here as it was channeled through
this rupture in the peaks.
It was a further twenty miles before we were to park the car. For our interest lay not in this protracted glen, which
whilst founded upon the past teemed with fresh life, but further up in the wild stretches of moor which lie at the head of
the valley where it climbs into the mountains. We were destined for the very source of the glen, where the river after which
it is named gathers itself from the sodden watershed heath.
A figure appeared on the road ahead of us, 'David,' I said, 'Would you just stop the car at the man ahead. The road
map's a bit vague on all these minor roads. I don't want to waste time driving miles up one route only to find it's the wrong
one.'
David did I asked, and we pulled over by the weather beaten man, who I supposed was a local shepherd.
Winding down the window, I said, 'Excuse me. Could you possibly tell us if this is the correct road for the reservoir?'
'Aye, it is,' he said taciturnly.
David leaned across, 'We're looking for something called the Hag Stone. Do you happen to know anything about it?'
'No I don't, but I'll give you a warning. If you're thinking of going up past the reservoir, then put that idea out
of your head now. The land up there's dangerous, all one big bog. And the weather's never pleasant. We've had enough accidents
up there, we wouldn't want anymore.' He said this as though he were harbouring some deeper objection.
'Well, thank you for your help,' I said, feeling that it was best to conclude the conversation as his advice was patently
going to be ignored. He seemed to know it, for as we drove away I looked in the wing mirror, and saw him slowly shaking his
head.
'Do you still think it exists?' Peter asked, 'Not even the locals know about it.'
'We don't know he's local. Besides, those who do live here are more likely to keep it secret. They say that people
still venerate it,' David replied.
The car came to a stop where the road reached its conclusion, and where we had seemingly outrun the last remnants of
life by several miles. Above us towered the bulwark of the dam which harnessed the straining tide of a reservoir. Over a hundred
years ago it had swallowed these upper reaches, drowning hamlets and crofts and so leaving but a nostalgic memory of human
life. Beyond the reservoir, far beyond the furthest frontier of civilisation, the glen visibly narrowed and surrendered before
an imposing cluster of fells. It was into this forsaken expanse that we were to head.
When David brought the car to a halt, Peter, who had largely remained silent and sullen for the past three hours came
to life, much as hens with first light, 'Christ, are we here already. I was dreading it. Now, I have to leave the warmth and
comfort of the car, and trek into that wasteland after next to no sleep.'
'We've all slept badly, so you're no worse off that the rest of us,' David said diplomatically.
'Except for the fact that you actually want to go. And besides, I doubt you really are as tired as I am.'
'How come?' David asked.
As in the tent earlier, Peter hesitated and his face clouded before he turned away and said, 'Nothing. It doesn't matter.'
'Yes, it does matter. You've made a statement, now justify it,' I demanded, my tolerance frayed with exhaustion.
'Well OK. You'll only take the piss, but for the first time since I was young, I had a nightmare,' he admitted.
I said nothing, not appreciating the implication.
'It was quite disturbing, although I can't remember much. I just remember being paralysed, unable to move or even scream,
whilst something happened around me. I didn't sleep for long at all,' Peter continued.
'It's time we got our act together. I reckon it's going to be a long trek and it's almost eight o'clock already,' David
stated.
'Do we actually know where we're going?' Peter asked.
'Yes, I more or less planned the route last night.' Preparing to demonstrate, I began to do battle with the Ordnance
Survey map in the confined quarters of the front passenger seat, with gear sticks, dashboards and door handles assailing me
from the flanks. As ever, it was an endeavour to challenge an origami master, and I was rendered quite incapable. To add to
my shame, after a couple of minutes valiantly wrestling with the expanses of paper involved, David insisted on sorting it
out and success followed forthwith. However, my faith in our cartographers was further diminished upon discovering that our
journey was breached by a fold in the map. Eventually, I was able to make some sense of the thing, and indicated to Peter,
who peered over from the back seat to study it.
'Basically,' I began, 'the best part of the journey is along the service track for the reservoir. It was a pity we're
not allowed to take the car along it, as I'm sure it would be possible to drive on and would cut at least three miles off
the walk. If we'd brought the bikes life would have been easier.'
'Why aren't we going over the mountain's from the back? It looks quicker,' Peter observed.
'It probably is as the crow flies, but there aren't any paths,' I replied.
'And besides, that's the route the farmer took,' David added ominously.
'Meaning?'
'In the last century a farmer was crossing from the next glen into this one, and he walked straight over the mountains.
The fogs drew in thick for days, so that he lost his way and had to spend the night up there. They found him disheveled and
wild eyed several days later, all his wits had forsaken him. He survived just a few days more, raving about the things that
came out of the mists and the rock that was not rock. When the weather finally cleared, the crofter who'd found the man set
out to check on the sheep in that part of the valley. He discovered that the farmer, who had died from terror in his arms
earlier that day, had made his shelter in the very shadow of the Hag Stone.'
'So once we've reached the end of this track, what then?' Peter asked, nonplussed by David's tale.
'Then we'll see.'
'You mean it's peat bog from thereon in.'
Peter was right of course, and I was left to reflect on this fact several minutes later whilst pulling on my light
weight walking boots. Musing on what scant protection they offered from water, which there would undoubtedly be a lot of,
I realised that we were utterly unprepared in general. We were readying ourselves to trek into rarely frequented country,
with the last house already some miles behind us. Nobody had the least inkling of our intentions. Whilst I was rarely bothered
by such a consideration, on this occasion it nagged at me. All the sources stressed the treacherous terrain in which the
Hag Stone was situated, as if the land itself was trying to deter you. Furthermore, whilst the signs were currently auspicious,
I was worried that the weather which blighted the rest of the country might follow us here like a trapping hound.
Breakfast consisted of chocolate and mineral water. It was hardly sufficient, but the sandwiches and flask of coffee
hastily prepared this morning would have to wait. Waiting until we'd found the Stone, or not as the case may be, as a reward,
perhaps even a bribe. Peter was predictably unimpressed, 'Is this all?,' he bleated.
'Yeah, we didn't have enough food left yesterday to make much,' David shouted, rummaging through an objectionable heap
of waterproofs and rucksacks in the boot of the car.
'Are we ready?' he slammed the boot and emerged cocooned in a mass of gortex. He was the only one amongst us to appear
vaguely suited to what lay ahead, with a raincoat, gaiters and even a stick. However, perhaps only he truly knew what is was
that lay ahead. After all, this trip had originally been his idea. It was his reading, and partial belief with regard to the
supernatural that had drawn the Stone to our attention. Whilst I was determined to find this monument out of a casual historical
interest, David treated it as some type of ghost hunt. Such credulous romanticism was typical of him. For much of the holiday
which today would conclude, he had forever walked out of step with Peter and myself, striding purposefully ahead or lagging
behind absorbed in his own thoughts. David considered the landscape as an image of god. And as a representation of the goddess
who embodied the earth, the Hag Stone cast a particularly powerful glamour over him.
We were indeed as ready as we were ever going to be. And so with a final hankering glance at the car, turned and set
out on the track which from the road first climb to the height to the reservoir. This track was to remain depressingly familiar
for several more turgid miles. The white graveled surface wound interminably on ahead of us, until the glen itself jack-knifed
away into some hidden recess where it hoarded its secrets. With a monotonous regularity that path snaked up and down the valley
side. One moment it drew close to the rippling reservoir, seeking security, only then to spurn its artifice and climb up,
across insignificant streams and through small groves of trees huddling together for companionship. Ever the wind was in our
faces, the ferocity in its voice begging us to turn back. It ripped around my jacket so that I was quarantined by the cacophony
of rustling waterproof fibre, imprisoned with my own gloomy company. Chancing streaks of drizzle drove into my eyes, in an
attempt to avert my fixed stare from the way ahead.
Where the reservoir reached its conclusion, the glen began to turn a corner, traversing the protruding spur of a mountain
on the right. As we followed the persistent path round the flank, we could see neither our distance traveled, nor the way
ahead. It was in this purgatory that we first came to rest. I'd perceived David was typically straggling behind, to the extent
where rounding this monolithic corner he had disappeared from our sight altogether. Peter and I had been walking abreast for
most of the journey up to this point. When the wind exhausted itself from time to time, we had made conversation briefly,
before the gusts rose again to snatch words from us and throw them casually across the landscape. Engaged in our own company,
or else trapped in enforced reveries whilst the elements lay siege, the fate of David had passed unnoticed. We found repose
on a cluster of rocks by the wayside, patiently awaiting his emergence.
It was a long time coming, yet when he finally slouched into view I understood exactly why his delay had been such.
Rather than matching our own determination in pursuit of the goal, his attention was focused in a small writing pad, all his
efforts absorbed by the twin struggle to write and protect his labours from the jealous gale. This behaviour was also not
unknown. On many occasions I had observed David seized by inspiration, and begin to scribble frantically, possessed by the
muse.
When he finally caught us up, I spoke, 'Once we've rounded this corner, it should be possible to see where we're going.'
I indicated on the map, only to realise that this was the point at which the fold crossed the sheet, and I had to rearrange
it in the map case.
'Can we get on?' Peter asked, 'I'm bored of waiting now. And besides, it's freezing once you stand still.'
'David's not had a rest yet,' I replied.
'Tough. He should've been walking faster and not messing about being creative,' Peter said, with the final word emphasised
in disdain.
'No, you're alright. I'm fine to go on. But don't forget Peter, if it wasn't for we "artists," you scientists
would be very bored when you got home at night.' With this from David, we began walking again.
'Not the art versus science argument again, please,' I begged.
'Artists are slackers. David just proved it by lagging behind so much.'
'I think sometimes Peter, that you've sold your soul. Doesn't a place like this stir you at all?' David inquired of
him.
'I'd rather understand it than eulogise about it. And I have to say, that does not stir me in any way,' Peter nodded
ahead of us, as a new vista began to reveal itself.
The main body of the glen now furrowed off to the right, taking the path with. Directly across from us now, just beyond
the peeping tail of the reservoir, was a small tributary dale rent in the seemingly impenetrable bastion of the mountains.
The hills on either side were aloof, suffocating the small glen with a mantle of shadow so that every blade of grass in it
appeared stained and tainted. Whilst the sky above us was vast and airy, with the roof of cloud unthreateningly remote in
the firmament, a blanket of seething mist nestled in the hollow of the valley and soon swallowed it up. I knew instinctively,
without recourse to the map, that this scar around which a darkness had congealed was the place for which we headed. Yet between
us and it, and the thing to which Peter so grimly gestured, was a seemingly verdant stretch of open country. This however,
was but a veneer. The brown hue which tempered the daub of green, and the way in which clumps of cotton grass and moss dappled
the surface, exposed its true nature.
'That is at least a mile of peat bog we have to cross,' Peter said grimly.
'Think of it as character building,' I said.
'I think of it as a muddy hell. It's been pouring down for weeks, the ground's going to be saturated. We'll probably
meet our death in there, sinking into the mire.'
'Like the Celts,' David mused behind us.
'What are you talking about?' Peter asked.
'The Celts used to make human sacrifices in bogs. You know Lindow Moss in Chesire?'
'That dismal place,' I remarked.
'They found a preserved body in there, the "Lindow Man." He was probably a willing victim, a druid priest
offering his own life in sacrifice, to appease the gods as Roman invaders drew in,' David explained.
'What were you saying about how great Celtic religion was?' Peter said, looking at me.
'That's not all,' David continued, 'Before they dumped his body to drown, he'd had his throat cut and his neck had
been broken. It was called the Triple Death.'
'Thank you for that cheering information, David. Can we try and cross the bog rather than discuss it,' I said.
A distance which we had covered on the path in less than half an hour, took twice that time weaving through that labyrinth.
Peter's prediction had proved accurate, and a single misguided step would see you plunging knee deep into liquid mud. Thus,
we leaped from hag to hag, trampling innocent grasses that had clustered together on these islands, seeking safety from the
encroaching marsh. Yet each move was a risk, never confident that the inviting space for which you aimed was as firm as it
appeared, or fearing that your balance would desert you in crisis. Peter was the first to succumb to the snares which lay
abundant about us. Losing his footing on a rough clump of moss, he flailed his leg about wildly, before bringing it down and
watching in horror as it was sucked into the hungry earth. When he wrenched it back out again, globules of mud clung rebelliously
to his trouser and boots. I laughed, until the same fate befell me and I felt the fetid mire ooze in between the stitches
on my boots. I now squelched as I walked.
This ordeal was not concluded with the peat bog, for a second obstacle lay in our path. It was as if the valley sought
to discourage the unwary, repelling them from the borders of its sanctuary or else testing their suitability. For there was
now the matter of crossing the stream which cascaded down into the reservoir. The point at which we arrived upon it, it was
joined by a tributary rushing out of that small valley into which we stumbled, with an unseemly haste. The fleeting water
bubbled and streaked white, charging into rapids and twisting into eddies, gurgling with derision. Its clarity revealed unnerving
depths, where the current dashed rocks against each other, bruising them into smooth pebbles. Larger rocks lay peeping above
the surface, glistening and strewn in a perverse mockery of stepping stones. Using these to bridge the divide, Peter suffered
a second indignity when the same leg plunged into the icy waters.
When we stood at last as three on the far bank, looking triumphantly up into the glen, we were subdued and weary as
if our endurance was being gradually undermined by a systematic attack.
'So that's it then,' Peter stated, 'The Hag Stone is supposed to be in that valley.'
'You're sounding remarkably confident for a sceptic,' I commented.
'Well now I've come all this way I'm not going to defeated. I still don't believe any of the rubbish about it, but
we might at least find some boulder which we can pretend is the Hag Stone.'
'They say it moves about the glen, shifting to cheat its hunters. We'll be lucky to find it, but at least I'll have
been in its presence,' David said, his interjections becoming ever more dreamy as we pressed on.
The caprice which had come over my companions surprised me. David, whose mission this had been, had immersed himself
in the legends of this place to such an extent that he actually believed the Hag Stone would purposefully elude him. On the
other hand, Peter now talked as if he were driven to find it. Perhaps only by proving its existence as a mere lump of rock
could he dispel the rumour which surrounded it, and thus allow his firmly corporeal outlook to remain unchallenged. I surmised
the atmosphere of this place had affected them, and why should it not? Any traces of human presence were now behind us; the
road, the reservoir, the track, all had disappeared. All we knew was the wisps of mist coalescing and dispersing, the dark
mountains bearing down upon us, and the perpetual weeping of the wind as it rifled through the sedge. This hidden place, desolate
and forsaken, had a distinct character of loneliness which left the soul feeling stripped, naked in a void. That it should
affect us was inevitable: we were now solely at its mercy.
We walked on rather aimlessly, deeper into the recess of the glen, allowing ourselves to be cradled by that brood of
hills. The fallen cloud slowly began to envelop us, its cloying blanket closing in as if to suffocate, and soon we were unable
to make out more than a couple of yards ahead of us. Our one ally was the stream, which we ensured was ever racing alongside
us, albeit in an altogether more preferable direction. It was with sorrow that we knew the time would come when we would have
to leave this companion, and cast our search further afield across the heath. Nonetheless, for the moment we concentrated
on penetrating the heart of the place. And the more we trespassed, the more oppressive the atmosphere became. For levity I
began to whistle, but immediately regretted it. The sound was rendered leaden, and served only to emphasise the pervading
bleakness.
'David, where are we going?' I asked, having long relinquished map reading duties, for we were now trusting to luck
rather than judgement.
'I'm not sure. I feel I'll somehow know where to go when we're in the right area.'
'And what if you're intuition hasn't kicked in before the land starts to rise?' Peter inquired.
'Then we'll have to turn back. Maybe just hunt around a bit.'
'It's too big an area to just look around at random. The glen's relatively small I suppose, but there's still several
square miles to cover. It'll be useless in this weather to try to conduct a blanket search,' I said.
'Perhaps we could split up. If we choose a point along the stream for a rendezvous it ought not to be too difficult
to find again,' Peter suggested.
'No,' I replied grimly, 'I'd rather not. I wouldn't like to be alone out there.'
We trekked on for another couple of hundred yards, before David suddenly shouted, 'Look!' At first I failed to see
what was the source of his excitement, but my puzzled look caused him to point it out. Perched atop a hillock ahead of us,
was an elongated quartz stone, its milky surface sparkling to distinguish it against the somber greys and greens.
'Should we find this significant?' I remained vexed as to why David seemed so satisfied by this discovery.
'Yes. It's one of the outlying rocks that's supposed to mark the position of the Hag Stone, like cairns. It's mentioned
in one of the books,' he said.
'Let's have a look,' Peter requested.
David dismounted his rucksack, and began to empty its contents onto a rock. In addition to food supplies and walking
gear, he appeared to have brought every book containing a reference to the Hag Stone. This must have amounted to a considerable
weight, and it was small wonder that he'd be trailing behind so much. Having said this, my own situation was little better,
laden as I was with the camera equipment. This too was the result of David's zeal, and I was carrying not only the camera,
but a tripod, a telephoto lens, a flash and a variety of filters.
He finally found the reference he was looking for and announced, 'Here we are. It's in "Pagan Traditions in the
Highlands," by Doctor John Ragland. He was the most recent person to write about it to have visited it. The book only
dates from the 1970s I think.'
'Could we not have asked him for a better description of how to find it? Say you were doing about it in your dissertation
or something,' Peter said.
'No, he died not very long ago. It's a shame, because otherwise I think I probably would've done. Anyway, I'll read
out what it says, "I do not know how many hours we spent trudging about in that glen. My guide, who assured me of having
visited the Stone on a number of occasions, seemed to be as much at sea I was. The thick mist that descended into the valley
almost as soon as we arrived did not help matters. Finally, we chanced across a white quartz stone crowning a small knoll.
At this my guide became much more assured, and he informed me that a number of such rocks were to be found in the vicinity
of the Hag Stone, and therefore we were close to it now. His conviction was to prove well founded." Well, it looks like
we might actually find it.' With this, David began shoving his effects back into the rucksack with as little regard as he
had pulled them out.
As David was doing this, I stepped nearer to the hillock on which the lump of quartz was situated. Something had caught
my attention, and demanded closer investigation. For I thought I noticed a rustling amongst the tufts of taller grass. As
I drew in, I began to see fragmented snatches of movement. Something dark was shifting just out of sight, concealed by the
vegetation. I fancied I could make out the glint of a beady eye flickering in and out of my vision. Instinctively I knew something
else had entered the loneliness. Then, with a sudden, sharp movement it burst forth from its covert to startle me. As it revealed
itself, my nerves settled at the sight of brown fur, a twitching nose and powerful hind legs. Its long ears were pricked up,
no doubt in response to my presence.
'Only a rabbit,' I muttered to myself in reassurance, but the attention of the others was attracted.
'Mm?' Peter asked.
'Rabbit,' I said, nodding at the form stood on the hillock, poised and alert.
'No, it's too big. I think it's a hare,' Peter informed me.
At this, David said nothing but gave a knowing stare. We both understood only too well the possible significance, and
did not like it. For a moment, the animal sat on its haunches and turned to stare directly at us. If an animal can be said
to be possessed of expressions, then this one had accusation in its hollow eyes. Then, it turned and bounded off into the
mists. Before disappearing altogether, it stopped and once again turned to stare at us. With that, it was gone.
'Come on,' said Peter, 'We're obviously close now, if what it says in the book is true.'
I nodded, and looked at David. His face was contorted in a grimace, and whilst he nodded also, I detected a reluctance.
That the hare had disturbed him was quite plain to me, but to Peter, for whom these omens belonged to an alien realm of experience,
such nuances were invisible.
Thus, we gradually left the stream behind us, until the mist and wind conspired to obscure all sight and sound of it.
Yet, it was not merely the dense fog which impeded our search efforts, for the very lie of the land was against us. The terrain
was scored with hillocks and groughs, which made it impossible to see for any great distance in any direction. Instead, it
was an endless task of climbing up and down insignificant, but cumulatively exhausting rises and depressions. Whilst this
land might have been on the whole, better drained than the earlier bog, there were numerous spots where the peat were perilously
miry. Its rough surface was indented with hags, bearing a plumage of moss and grasses. My ankles jarred painfully as I lurched
over this rugged ground, and all the time the weight on my back became heavier I still. I came to so despise my burden that
I was possessed by a rage, and had to restrain myself from dashing the contents of my load against the nearest rock.
And then it began to rain. At first, I noticed the cloud grow still thicker, if such a thing were possible. It seemed
to close in, and the silver of the light took on an altogether darker hue. My whole surrounding became dingy, as if twilight
were falling. The air grew dank, the touch of the wind against my face was now moist and clammy. Drizzle, specks of which
had brushed my skin since leaving the car, began to increase in frequency. Soon, it drove about us in long streaks, tearing
through the fabric of the cloud. Carried on the wind, the missiles beset us from an almost horizontal trajectory. Hoods were
to no avail, as it buffeted our faces as if to blind. All I could hear was the thunderous drum of the droplets upon my raincoat.
I could feel it insidiously seeping through the cotton of my trousers, and soon they adhered to my legs with a cold, moist
embrace. In such a maelstrom, and over such ground, we stumbled on aimlessly. The length of time was difficult to gauge, but
with each step against the onslaught, my fatigue grew.
At length I could hear David shouting something, indistinct against the barrage. I turned round, to see him stood stock
still, bedraggled and pitiful.
'We shouldn't be here. It wants us to get out,' he shouted with desperation.
'For Christ's sake, David,' Peter exploded, 'What the hell are you talking about. This whole fiasco was your idea,
and you are not bottling out now. And having come this far, I'm certainly not leaving this place without something to show
for it.'
'She's not going to give up. We've defiled her sacred place,' David raved on.
'Don't be so superstitious. It's just a storm, it'll pass,' Peter said, ever the voice of reason.
'You're a fool, Peter. Can't you see, every time you dismiss her, you incite her.'
'Incite her to what, David? Death? Can the supernatural kill us?' There was flippancy in Peter's tone.
'No, it will be worse than death. We have crossed a boundary now, into such spaces where the veil has worn thin. We
stand on the brink between our own world, and realms which we cannot even conceive of. Why do you think the Celts so feared
Samaihn? They understood the danger on that night, when the gates between the worlds were breached, just as they perceived
the same danger here.'
I decided to add a more diplomatic voice, 'Look, I reckon David's right, at least about the weather. I don't think
it's just a passing storm, you saw how the cloud sinks into this valley. We ought to go now, because we're not going to find
anything, and the quicker I get dried off, the happier I will be.'
Peter was forced to agree, but I confess my motives did not stem from any practical concern. Whilst my waterlogged
clothing chaffed, and the rain kept on coming, there have been many previous occasions when such a situation has failed to
deter me. But I was more subtle in my plea, knowing that Peter would only concede to rationalism. I was also worried about
David, his anxiety was manifest and I feared him being driven beyond his ability to cope again. It was not my wish to see
him suffer a second breakdown. An exhibition of his paranoia was not uncommon, but here it was more pronounced, more consuming
than I had ever witnessed it before. Moreover, although I did not believe any of what he said, fear is infectious. The character
of the valley had undoubtedly altered, even if it was only the change in the weather. If at first, the place had been merely
grim, it now felt actively hostile. Immersed myself in the impression of our location, and with Peter in denial, I would be
unable to offer David the support he needed.
We had scarcely walked a hundred yards back in the direction of the stream, with Peter walking a little in front of
me, when I saw him stumble. I could see his ankle buckle under him, causing him to keel over and meet the ground with a dull
thud. Cursing, he struggled to get back up, but as soon as he put weight on the offending ankle he gave a sharp intake of
breath, and slipped back down onto the ground.
'Are you alright?' I asked, almost rhetorically.
'No,' he said through clenched teeth, 'I think it's broken, sprained at the very least.'
David caught up with us, 'What's the matter?'
'What does it look like,' Peter said, vehemently.
I bent down to examine the ankle, cautiously moving it. 'Does that hurt?'
'Yes, it bloody does!'
'No. This can't happen, not now. We've got to get out of here,' I heard David saying behind us.
'Stop it, David. You're not helping,' I said.
'She's trying to trap us, she doesn't want us to leave. You've got to get up Peter, we can't let her keep us here,'
David was pleading now, his voice trembling.
'The only way he's leaving here right now is if we carry him. It's at least another mile and a half back to the foot
of the valley, so I'm certainly not volunteering.' Despite my reproach of David, I understood his implication clearly. We
were now imprisoned here, locked in with forces inexorably seeking our destruction.
Peter pushed something back into the rucksack, 'The mobile phone's not working,' he announced.
'Well thank God we have a scientist here. I would never have guessed that surrounded by mountains the mobile phone
won't work. Of course it won't work!' David screamed.
'There's no harm in trying. Somebody's going to have to walk back to the car and contact mountain rescue,' Peter said.
'David should go.'
'No,' he said, 'I'm not going back alone.'
'You can either go back alone and contact mountain rescue, or you can stay here with Peter, in this valley you're so
desperate to get out of, whilst I go.'
'I don't have any choice, do I,' David admitted, downcast.
'No, just find the stream again and keep straight on until you leave the valley. Don't look back, and run if you have
to. Remember, if you sense anything, just cross over the stream.' Whilst I did not believe David was in any danger, it was
evident that he did, and this folkloric tradition was the best comfort I could offer.
'Right, I'll see you in a while,' David said. He turned, and without looking back, strode into the mists, with that
unnatural haste characteristic of the nervous man. There were only two of us now, and without the third voice the silence
became ever more eerie. I half wished that we had tried to carry Peter out of the glen, then at least we would've been together
and free of this accursed place. However, it would have been futile, serving only to tire us further. Yet as it was, Peter
and I were left alone here for hours to come, two sceptics together. If it was a film, our days would be numbered. I said
as much to Peter, but the response was unexpected.
'I'm not quite so narrow minded as I've been making out,' he confessed.
'Don't say that. To be honest, neither am I, but I was counting on your cynicism to get me through this.'
'I was just bullying myself into not accepting what was going on around me. I thought if I didn't give in to the fear,
if I just kept going, then I would be alright. But I failed to convince myself. Even though it's against every belief I've
ever held, you can't escape the sheer malevolence of this place,' Peter said, in hushed tones.
'If you hadn't twisted your ankle, we'd be almost out of here.'
'It's the same ankle, you know. The one that I stumbled on in the bog, the one that slipped crossing the stream. It's
as if there's a design in it. As if all the obstacles have been wearing me down, leading to this. That is why I have to confess
to the terror, for the pattern is now too clear. If I do not prepare myself for the truth now, then it will be worse when
it comes. I can't help thinking of the nightmare I had last night. The horror of being powerless victims. Because that is
what we will become if we don't focus all of our will upon our defense.'
'Stop it,' I demanded, 'We're not doing ourselves any favours talking like this.'
'You're right. At least the rain's beginning to stop.' He was right, the torrent which had been streaming down for
the past half hour or more, was settling into a sporadic drizzle again. It made little difference now of course, our clothing
having long since passed saturation point. Nor would we dry off with any speed, for the air remained chill, moisture still
latent in the draping cloud.
'What's that?' Peter asked, startling me after a few moments silence.
'What?' I could neither see nor hear anything, but did not like Peter's implication.
'Out there in the mist. Something's moving.'
I peered further into the phantasmagoria of swirling mists, my eyes having to grow accustomed to their perpetual transformations
in the wind. Sure enough, I could just make out a figure, slipping in and out of vision. It was a dark shape, lumbering about,
seemingly heading away from us but it was difficult to tell. At first my mind was plagued with thoughts of vague, intangible
horrors coming out of the fog. With a jolt, my reason returned. I dismissed all thoughts of a supernatural cause, and decided
that this could be our saviour.
'You're right,' I said, 'I don't think it's David, he's been gone too long to have only got that far. Unless he's coming
back for some reason, but it looks to be moving away.'
'It might just be a trick of the mist,' Peter suggested.
'I doubt it. It's too clear, and we've both seen it. Maybe it's some other walker who's crossed the mountains, or perhaps
one of the local shepherds or something.'
'You might be right. Try shouting to him.'
'He'd never hear over the wind from this distance,' I said, 'We'll have to use the whistle.'
Frantically, I began rooting about in my own, and then Peter's rucksack. However, it was to no avail and the bitter
realisation quickly dawned upon me. 'Either we forgot to bring it out, or David's got it.'
'We'll have to try shouting, we can't let him get away,' Peter insisted.
'No, I'm going to have to run after him.'
'You can't leave me here on my own.'
'Don't worry. He can't be that far ahead, it won't take me more than a couple of minutes. I'll be back shortly,' With
this I broke into a run, or at least as fast a pace as was possible over that rough ground without risking Peter's fate. Yet
despite my best efforts, the figure in the mist remained just as elusive. It was forever slipping out of my sight in the writhing
mists, and always it seemed to keep a constant distance ahead of me. Occasionally I would lose it, only to realise it had
slightly changed its course. Finally, it vanished permanently from my sight. I continued in the general direction it was heading
for several minutes, hoping to find the trail once more, but to no avail. Perhaps it had been a mirage after all, an illusion
of the clouds. By this point however, I had covered at least a quarter of a mile. Peter had long since disappeared behind
shrouds of fog, and unbending knolls.
A gnawing dread crept over me. I was now truly alone in this heathen glen, and the sense of isolation was onerous.
The sensation of prickling hairs swept down the nape of my neck, and I began to start at every movement and every sound. Now
I understood what David had feared so greatly when I sent him off, companionless into the miasma. Yet my situation was worse,
for whilst David would have been sure to keep the stream at his side at all times, I had run unthinkingly into the mists.
Blindly I had staggered after that phantom figure, without the least regard for where it was leading me. Thus was I now stood,
separated from Peter and unable to readily return to him. For who knows where I had been taken over that distance. I could
have made my way full circle and find myself walking deeper into the heart of the glen.
Panic gripped me. Again I began to run, regardless of reason, uncaring of direction. My only motivation was to reach
the security of fellowship, by what ever means possible. If I was simply heading further into the valley, then so be it. I
would continue my course, straight over the mountains if that was what it took to find some signs of life again.
'Peter! Peter!' I called, my shout clamouring over the din of the wind. Silence responded in mockery.
I continued shambling through the glen in desperation, trying to navigate myself to Peter placing my faith in luck
alone. Now, I could only hope to trust to fortune for I might as well have been engulfed in darkness. No landmarks could be
discerned in that morass of cloud, I could not even hear the stream above the roar of the wind. The compass and map had remained
with Peter. I remembered leaving him in a hollow, banked on most sides by hummocks. It was such a place that I attempted to
find again, making for every rise in the land to emerge from the mist, hoping to catch sight of Peter just over its brow.
And it was thus I came to such a recess as the one in which I had left him.
In its centre I could clearly discern a figure, yet moving closer it was apparent that it was not the figure I had expected
or hoped for. It was swathed in a drab grey cowl, head stooped so that I could see no face beneath the hood. Cautiously, I
approached but the form before me remained statuesque, not responding to my presence. Even as I was practically upon it, it
still resolutely failed to acknowledge me. 'Hello,' I ventured with trepidation. Upon the sound of my voice, its head jerked
upwards and for a split second I stared fully into that hideous face, before I recoiled as if struck by some force and felt
myself impact hard onto the floor.
Whilst I had looked into that malformed visage for no longer than it had taken me to blink, the memory will never leave
me. Whenever I close my eyes it will loom again before me. It will haunt my every dream until I die, poisoning my rest with
an endless nightmare. Even as I lie dying and delirious, it will swim into my fevered vision as my final living thought, for
it is branded upon my retina for perpetuity. The likeness was that of an old woman, but the flesh upon her cheek was so withered
that it hung in tatters across the bone. The lips were drawn tautly back from her mouth, revealing a jagged and incomplete
set of teeth fixed in a rictus grin. Sunken deep into that shriveled skull, two eyes peered out, burning with malevolence.
My whole body ached as I struggled to get to my feet, readying to flee that terrible manifestation. Although I strove
to avoid doing so, it was inevitable that I would again catch sight of the malignancy before me. Therefore it was a shock
when all that met the fearful corner of my eye was hard rock. Turning, I encountered a simple standing stone of about my own
height. The pitted surface, abraded by incalculable years of weathering, and clinging growth of lichen and moss made it simulacral.
I had little doubt that this was our quarry, the Hag Stone. Yet I never began to consider making use of the weight of photographic
equipment in my rucksack, for my instinct remained the same. All I thought to do was run as if the hounds of hell were on
my trail, for I could not deny what I had seen.
Yet as I tried to run, my feet sunk into the mire and caught on the peat hags, as if the ground itself were trying
to drag me back. On all sides the angle of land seemed prohibitive, like walls hemming me in as I ran senseless, searching
for the pass which would take me out of that claustral arena. Eventually I found it, frantically bounded out and continued
to charge across the rugged landscape. Although I believed I had earlier covered every inch of the surrounding area, within
minutes I had stumbled upon Peter once more.
I staggered up to him, breathless and flushed. But I could see from the grim countenance he wore that all was not well
with him either.
'Where have you been?' he demanded, evidently unnerved.
'I found her,' I spluttered.
'Her? What are you talking about?'
'Her, it, whatever - it doesn't matter. I've seen the stone.'
'You found it. Well done. Where?'
'I think it would be better to say that it found me. You look upset, what's happened here?'
'David came back,' Peter stated abruptly.
'David came back?' All I could do was dumbly repeat him, incredulous.
'He came about five minutes after you'd left, and went five minutes before you came back.'
'Why? What did he say, and why did he just go again?' I asked.
'I don't know.' Peter said vacantly, as if trying to evade the true reply.
'What do you mean you don't know.'
'Well, he just came and sat down,' Peter trailed off as if he was only now fully cognisant of the events, 'But he didn't
say a word until he left.'
At this, Peter took on a pallour and shuddered. He seemed disturbed, and I should have known better than to insist
further. I imagine I would have reacted similarly if forced to recall my own experience whilst still in that dreadful place.
Nonetheless, I continued to exhort the information from him. 'Didn't you say anything?'
'No, I couldn't,' Peter replied, his manner remaining distant.
'Why not? He was supposed to be getting help for you. Didn't you try to find out if he'd called Mountain Rescue?'
'For Christ's sake, stop it. You weren't there, you can't understand.'
'He must have said something. What did he say?' I persisted.
'Well, just before he left he did say one thing. He said "wait here and we'd be with him soon." But God...
it wasn't... it wasn't really David,' Peter's voice broke, and he struggled for breath as if fighting against tears.
'How could it not have been David? You have to tell me Peter.'
'When he came, I thought he looked different. His whole face was drawn and wan, and he moved as if he were in a trance.
But when he sat down and looked at me... he just gave me this blank stare. There seemed to be an empty void in his eyes, as
though his soul had been sucked out just leaving a hollow shell. Then, when he left, before he vanished again into the mists
he looked at me again. It was with a leer.'
'And you're sure you told me his exact words before he left?' I asked, a hint of hysteria creeping into my own voice.
'Yes. That was all he said in the whole time.'
'Right,' I said assertively, 'We're leaving.'
'What? I can't, my ankle isn't up to walking on,' Peter retorted.
'Look, I'll support you. Damn it, I'll even carry you if I have to, but we must go.'
As I said this, the wind dropped yet the chill grew greater. A sudden frost felt to descend, and the hairs on my skin
simultaneously rose as I shivered. The strangest thing was that whilst the gale fell, the sound of its crying in the gullies
and through the sedge continued with a chilling insistence.
'C'mon' I said, 'We've got to go.' My urgency impressed Peter, and he responded to my attempts to lift him onto his
feet. I threw off my rucksack, and put his arm round my shoulder so that his bad leg was on the inside.
'What about the rucksack?' he asked.
'We're going to have to leave it. I can't carry you both.'
'You can't leave it, there's several hundred pounds worth of photography equipment in there.'
'For God's sake, Peter!' I shouted, 'Can't you see it doesn't matter? We'll be lucky to get out ourselves. Now, keep
your weight on me and move as fast as you can.'
With that we began to lumber gracelessly, with a haste born of terror, struggling to leave that unearthly valley behind
us. Yet it seemed as if we were proceeding on a tread mill, each labourious footstep failing to carry us away with the speed
we desired. At no point did I dare look back, for it seemed that some nameless horror was forever at our rear, ready to claw
us back. How we ever successfully made our way out into the larger glen staggers me. We had stumbled and fallen across almost
two miles of heath, Peter regularly gasping in pain as his ankle jarred repeatedly on the ground. In the final stages, I was
practically dragging him along on his knees, before having to place his full weight on my back and wade across the stream.
Once across the water, we knew we were safe again, although I still resolutely refused to cast my gaze back over my
shoulder. To our relief a shepherd could be seen in the distance, mercifully despoiling the quiet in a quad bike. He was within
our line of sight, and within earshot now that the winds had died down. Thus we concentrated on making a spectacle of ourselves,
waving and shouting for help. To our relief, he noticed us and began heading towards us. The peat bog forced him to abandon
his transport, but he swiftly crossed it as if he had done so many times before. We were grateful for the familiarity. As
he drew nearer, it became apparent that it was the same shepherd we had talked to only hours ago, although the meeting seemed
separated by ages of experience.
I explained our situation to him, to which he merely nodded sagely like he had already anticipated it.
'So, you went looking for that old stone.' The statement was enough of an indictment in itself.
'We did, although I'd rather we'd listened to you in the first place. The land is dangerous,' I said euphemistically.
'Did you find anything?' he asked, but quickly followed it with, 'Aye, I see that you did.' There was a curious sadness
in his voice, and as I met his eye, he seemed to absorb all knowledge of what had passed. Gathering the last vestiges of my
shattered courage, I dared chance a final look upon the scene our of misfortunes. The mist remained stubbornly lodged in the
glen, and I swear that the manner in which it coagulated into grotesque forms, however fleeting, was more than just an effect
of the wind.
The shepherd helped me support Peter back across the bog, before driving us back down the reservoir service track to
where we had parked. There was no sign of David at the car, nor any indication that he had returned there.
'He must have gone to find a phone to call Mountain Rescue. We'll have wasted their time though. I hope they realised
we've left, and don't waste time looking for us,' I said. Peter remained silent.
After waiting a couple of hours, we came to the inevitable conclusion that something had happened to David. Upon phoning
Mountain Rescue ourselves, we learnt that no calls had already been taken in that area. Consequently, we registered our fears
for the safety of David, and a search operation was mounted. However, over the course of several days, involving helicopters
and ground searches, no sign was found of him. The emergency services persistently expressed their frustration with our seeming
obstruction of the search, by refusing to retrace our steps of that day or accompany any of the search parties. Within the
week, David was registered as a missing person and for several years I heard no more of the matter nor ever saw my friend
again.
The events of that day recently resurfaced, quite literally, and it has brought back every painful memory. And once
again, that awful face troubles my dreams. The estate on which the whole glen is situated passed out of the hands of the declining
hereditary ownership, and the land was taken over by some less sympathetic party. They initiated peat cutting, which had never
before been attempted in those upland reaches, and their greedy hands soon fell upon the Hag Stone glen itself. A number of
misfortunes befell the operation, and it was concluded that the difficulty of the terrain made the venture unprofitable and
it was eventually abandoned. However, before this decision was reached, a body emerged from the peat. It was revealed to be
the corpse of one David Page, having disappeared in the area several years before. The coroner concluded that there was no
reason to suppose that his death had been anything other than an accident, although he seemed to have met this with an unusual
force. However, the manner of the accident was singular enough to provoke controversy. The remains had been found submerged
in the peat, only feet away from a small outcrop, and David had met his end amongst these craggy stones. He had fallen, but
in descending his throat caught on a serrated rock severing the jugular vein. The impact had also served to break his neck.
Finally, his broken body had subsided into the peat, slowly drowning in the mire.
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