The Realms Thereunder

2

The trip up to Dunbeath, the largest village next to Morven, took just a couple hours and was a scenic, costal drive. As he came closer to Morven, the sky became overcast, threatening rain. The clouds were so dark and deep-almost purple, in fact-that one could almost think it was starting to be evening. Alex looked at the dashboard clock; it read 9:47 a.m.

Instead of finding a place in the village to park, he turned inland and looked for the farm. Farmers were more tied into the area, not just in terms of community but of the land as well.

He came across a group of small buildings near a sign that read Bainabruich. He pulled the Land Rover up a dirt driveway, killed the ignition, and let himself in through a cattle gate. After knocking and receiving no reply at the front door, he circled around the house to the large open barn.

Through the doors in the back he could see a tractor moving across one of the fields. He spotted the path to the field and started along it. When the man in the tractor saw him, he turned off his engine and climbed out of the cab.

“Hello,” Alex said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wallet that he had stuffed his police badge into. “My name is Alex Simpson. I’m with the Northern Constabulary,” the truth; “I work in the Special Crimes Unit,” the lie.

“Oh, aye,” the farmer said cautiously, reaching into his jacket pocket for a tobacco pouch and a packet of Rizlas.

“Can I ask your name, sir?”

“Rab Duthie.” He stuck out his hand.

Alex shook it. “My department deals with crime patterns by location and sociological region. I wonder if you wouldn’t mind answering a question or two about the area.”

The farmer licked his cigarette paper and nodded.

“Grand,” Alex said, pulling out his notebook, more to stall for time than anything else. All that nonsense about worming your way into the affections of the local folk by handing out cigarettes and making sly comments was pure fantasy-something just to keep the mystery serials on TV moving along. The farmers he’d grown up around weren’t that gormless. He was going to have to blag his way through and hope that his officiousness carried him to where he needed to be.

“There have been reports of animals missing in the area. Anything of your own gone walkabouts?”

Duthie lit his roll-up and took a puff, squinting as he thought. “Nothing missing, as such. But there have been some . . . breakages. Vandalism, ye ken.”

Alex scribbled in his notebook. “Where did this occur?”

“East Fold,” he said, gesturing. “Hedge been flattened.”

“The hedge?”

“Aye. Flattened right down to the ground. Torn up places, but mostly”-he made a squashing motion with his palms-“had to put up some planks to stop the sheep all from wandering awa’.”

“That’s odd. Could we go an’ have a look?” Alex asked, looking out across the field.

“Sure, nae problem. Hop on.” Rab Duthie started up the tractor and they rolled off, Alex perched on the footstep, holding on to the cab After some maneuvering around dirt tracks and muddy paths, they came to a long thick hedge that must have been, Alex judged, at least a hundred years old. It was only about five feet high, but over four feet wide. The tractor shuddered to a stop and Alex hopped down.

“Ye can see it there,” said Duthie, climbing down and discarding his cigarette and pointing to a gap in the hedge. “I no ken how it happened. Too narrow for any car or tractor-and I’ve seen both get stuck trying to travel through thinner-in addition to there bein’ no tracks. No animal I know of would have the power tae do it. Except an elephant, mebbe.”

Alex poked around a little but found nothing peculiar. “You really have no idea what did this?”

The farmer looked at him for a second and then shrugged and shook his head. He stuck his hands in his pockets.

Which meant that he did have some idea, but that he wasn’t willing to share it.

“Anything else odd in the area?”

“Weel, there’s been carjackings. Joyriding and the like. It’s been awhile since we’ve had that up here,” Rab Duthie said, looking off into the distance, his voice getting high, stressed. “It’s like a wee crime wave up here. Been thievings, fights most nights down at the pubs, even the quiet ones. People are fashed-right desperate, ye ken? Spirits are low. We’ve had a bad season-nae enough rain or sunlight. Everything ye put in the ground comes up weak and yellow, if at all, and that gets ye doon, natural, but folks took it hard this year. Some farmers hae kilt themselves and done tried kilt themselves. Children. Children done kilt themselves. Teenagers with their lives ahead of them-” Duthie paused and spat on the ground, twice. His voice was getting low and raw now. Alex said nothing.

“Their lives ahead of them and they can no see a way for’ard.

More afeared of life than they are of death. Every one of them is a blow, even the ones that pull through. It gets to you. It mounts up in your soul and you find yourself looking at a bottle of pills or a rafter in the barn, and you think, weel . . . weel mebbe . . .”

Duthie cleared his throat noisily and spat again. He didn’t look like he felt like saying any more after that.

“Well,” Alex said eventually. “It seems to me as if you have more problems than just a gap in your hedge.”

Duthie forced a laugh.

“What do you think is causing it?” Alex asked.

The farmer turned his head.

“Crime, suicide, depression, violence, drunkenness, vandalism . . . and this gap in your hedge. To you, they all seem connected. What’s causing these things?”

Duthie turned to stare Alex straight in the eyes. His sturdy, weathered frame swayed slightly in the brisk morning air. “Aye, I have a ken of what’s causin’ this-this atmosphere of hate and fear.”

“And?”

“You would nae believe me!” Duthie shouted, almost angry in his desperation.

“Try me.”

“The De’il!”

Duthie seemed shocked to hear himself say the words out loud. He stood, trembling. The Devil.

“Aye, now we’re getting somewhere,” Alex said, grinning.

Duthie turned to look at Alex out of the corner of his eye. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”

“Not at all,” Alex said. “I think you’re clever and brave to say that.”

Duthie nearly broke down completely. His eyes became watery and he had to look away. “My wife-she dusnae get up most days. Says she can feel the presence of evil here-like a giant hand that’s pushing everyone doon.”

“Who hereabouts-or in the village perhaps-would I go to find out more about this?” Alex asked. “A town official? Mayor? Priest? Wise old woman?”

Duthie pushed at his cheekbones with his palms. “Rector,” he said, clearing his throat. “Rector Maccanish. He’s your man.”

“Where will I find him?” Alex asked.

“Down the kirk. I’ll tak’ ye to him,” Duthie said, climbing into the tractor once more.

“If it is the De’il,” he said before he started the engine, “is there anythin’ a man can do about it?”

“Of course there is,” Alex answered. “That’s why I’m here.”