This week’s image is from a recent walk in the woods from Cambo house in North East Fife through to the Kingsbarn Distillery. If you’re ever in the area I can thoroughly recommend it. The estate has a bit of everything from walled gardens and cafes to woodland trails. Staying in the house is entirely lovely (we’ve had weddings from each side of the family there) and an opportunity to be seized if it ever presents.
This particular walk led us along the course of a little burn. (The stream kind, not the fiery sort.) A path that we’d followed several times before. At some point between trips part of the cliff wall on the far side of the water had collapsed, minorly damming the stream. I was struck by how even and rectangular and, well, door-like the cleared space was. Which naturally left me musing who could be expected to come through…
Tom coughed and waved his hand ineffectually in front of his face, which did nothing but stir the dust up more. Despite the great splash of water that had drenched him as the rocks hit the stream, the collapsing cliff had kicked up a cloud of dense, dry, choking dust that made seeing impossible and breathing even harder.
He would realise, later, that he had been lucky not to be crushed to death in the landslide. But in the moment, there on the forbidden north bank of the Wilderburn, curiosity was alone in the driving seat.
It had started as any other day. The trek to school through the woods. He’d kept to the path, as he always did. His grandmother and parents had been clear on that front. There were fairies in the woods and, while they weren’t evil as such, they most certainly weren’t safe.
As usual, his eyes were drawn to the thick curtain of thriving plant life and cliff wall behind it. His family had been clear about that too. The north side of Wilderburn was off limits. But who among us hasn’t felt the draw of the forbidden.
That morning something had been different. Perhaps it was just the angle of the sun, low in the autumn sky. Perhaps a trick of the wind, lifting just the right strands of ivy at the perfect moment. Whatever the cause, a glint of silver had caught Tom’s wandering eyes. Unbidden, his feet had stopped, turned him, and brought his toes to the brink of the chuckling waters. There it was again — a twinkle of bright metal among the trailing leaves. It looked like a rune. Something from the old stories. But what was it doing here?
Tom hadn’t noticed crossing the burn. There had been no moment of decision to break the rules. A moment of clarity had broken through as his fingers reached to stroke the silvery rune letter. The scream of his conscience was what had saved him. He leaped aside at the exact moment the rock wall crumpled into the water.
His hands trembled with more than the chill from his soaked clothes. Something had happened. As the dust began to clear Tom could make out darkling shapes moving. Moving away from the cliff. That was when the voices started. Ugly guttural voices, as sharp as the spiky rune that had led to all this. He couldn’t understand their words. It was a language that Tom hadn’t heard before. But he recognised the sound of hate when he heard it.
Brandon Lim 