Kyliemuir House by Phineas Redux

‘Kyliemuir House’

Phineas Redux

—OOO—

Summary:— 1943, Wartime, a barren moor in wild Scotland, two downed planes from opposite sides of the conflict, and an unidentified Supernatural Force.

Disclaimer:— There is some minor cursing in this story.

—O—

The Heinkel 111 had found a soft flat spot on the moor to lay its tired and battered frame, so although covered in mud wet peat and clods of heather it remained more or less whole apart from the bullet holes which had brought it to this inglorious termination of its short career: bullets that had originally come from the Hurricane which had pursued its enemy to the point wherein success, for the Hurricane, had been assured. The fact that immediately afterwards the fighter’s port wing had folded under the influence of several cannon shells from the stricken enemy resulting in it too finding a peaceful resting-place on the wide empty moor after, thankfully, the pilot hit the silk successfully, being an unexpected consequence: with the unusual result that the crews of both planes were now well in sight of each other, the whole moor surrounding them, neither German group nor single British officer knowing quite what their next move ought to be.

The moor, being a moor, was boggy all over its wide extent—some six miles wide by eleven long—but there were places where the wetness showed itself more than usually; one such spot being where the individual crews now found themselves. The Heinkel’s two engines, after a successful belly-landing, were more or less buried in the wet peaty soil, propellers bent like broken sticks, tail hanging by a thread on the fuselage; the Hurricane, on the other hand, a mere jumbled pile of unrecognisable wreckage, it’s propeller and engine having been torn away on hitting the ground, the port wing ripped off entirely while the fuselage was no longer extant except in tiny pieces scattered over the surrounding heather like confetti at a wedding. Physical wounds consisting however, on both sides, merely of bumps, scratches, and bruises.

The wrecks lay within half a mile of each other, in plain sight leaving the crew of the Heinkel and the pilot of the Hurricane a difficult decision to make—what, in fact, to do now?

The time was just after 10.30am, the weather was fine with a light cloud base at 4,000ft, and a soft breeze from the north-west. The heather smelt divine, a sharp chill tinge to the air made one feel on top of the world, and the War was in full swing. Finally the Captain of the Heinkel, fed-up with just staring at his erstwhile enemy from a distance, tied his white handkerchief to a broken metal rod from the airframe of his late aircraft and set off towards the Hurricane, not forgetting to leave his Luger safely behind, not wanting the British pilot to get the wrong idea so early in their forced acquaintance.

He started, at least, to walk towards the distant figure of the British pilot but got no further than fifteen feet before sinking to his knees in the bog. Help coming from his anxious crew it was still all of another ten minutes before he was extricated from his position, a sadder and wiser man. Returning to the wreck to salvage a longer iron rod he now set-out more carefully, testing each step before he took it; the walk to the distant downed fighter taking far longer than expected as a result. Although well in sight, and only around a short half-mile away, it still took the German nearly an hour to reach his foe, again by this time covered well above his knees in mud and plant life and wholly out of breath and energy.

“Grüße, sir. Was für ein verdammter Ort. Was machen wir jetzt bitte?”

The British pilot shrugged his shoulders beneath his sheepskin lined flying jacket, having previously removed his helmet.

“What’s that, old cock?”

The German returned the shrug, switching to the colloquial.

“Where are we? What do we do now? I take it you acknowledge this must be a draw, no?”

“Hardly, old friend.” The Briton knowing full well what was what, and more importantly where. “We’re both down, sure; but this is Bonnie Scotland, so that makes you my prisoner, laddie. You ain’t armed, by the way? That bein’, as it were, a bit of a no-no in the circumstances. Where are we? Scotland, like I said; one of its more notorious boggy Moors, sad t’say. Neither of us is goin’ anywhere fast; just need t’wait for the jolly rescue wallahs t’come out an’ do their thing.”

Casting an eye from side to side the German grunted, mumbled something low in his native tongue, harsh, to the point, and wholly impolite, before conceding his position.

“Verdammtes loch. Also muss ich wohl kapitulieren, sir. Nein, ich bin nicht bewaffnet.”

“Wot?”

“I surrender, with my crew. What now?”

“Aye, weel, there’s the rub.” The British pilot not much clearer on his next move than the German. “Managed to relay my last position to HQ before hittin’ the silk, so they ought t’have a fair idea of our whereabouts. Expect a Sunderland, or something, will tootle over presently and drop sustenance an’ Red Cross parcels before the boys in khaki arrive by foot, which may take considerably longer, you’ll allow.”

The German turned from side to side, taking in the surrounding landscape with a frown.

“Where are we precisely, if I may ask?”

“Not so far from Brechin, near the edge of the Cairngorms,” The British pilot raising an arm to point over to the near horizon in the west. “that’s them over there—nasty place.”

The German studied the line of high mountains, snow-capped in some places, then pointed to a particular area.

“Is that a house, over there, just under the shadow of that hill? A mile or so off, I’m afraid.”

Intrigued, the British fighter pilot raised his own arm to shade his eyes.

“Yes, believe it is; why, got any idea of payin’ a visit?”

The German shrugged and gazed around.

“We can, I admit, stay here and await your, ahem, rescuers; but it would es wäre hervorstechender, be more salient, would it not, to reach a safe haven where we could spend the coming night, if needed, nein?”

Caught between Scylla and Charybdis the fighter pilot mused on this suggestion before coming to a conclusion.

“How many of a crew do you have? Any wounded, to any great extent?”

“Five of us altogether; no wounds, just bruises. We can all of us reach that building before dark, I’m sure. It’ll be midday soon, then only a few more hours before dark descends on this barren miserable, unforgiving land—that house beckons even more needfully with every minute that passes.”

The Hurricane pilot was a pragmatic chap generally, and now took only a few seconds to make-up his mind.

“OK, sounds like a plan—let’s go! Let’s hope your crew arrives here across the bog quicker than you, as it were!”

—O—

The house, on arrival there by the group several hours later in the dying afternoon light, turned out to be what used to be called a Hunting Lodge; a building on two storeys with attic and sloping slate roof occupied during the Shooting season but otherwise left to its own devices, which was the case today—in short it was empty.

“Door’s locked.” The Hurricane pilot turning the knob.

“Kick the door in, mein Kapitan!” The German pilot more pragmatic on the subject.

“This’s Britain, the house-holder’ll be irritated.” The Hurricane pilot raising a critical eyebrow.

The Heinkel pilot stood firm, if a trifle irritated.

“Gott im Himmel! Die erbärmliche Höflichkeit der Bourgeoisie! There’s a War on, sir. This is a barren land, we need somewhere to rest undercover—daher?”

Seeing the logic of this argument the Hurricane pilot nodded.

“OK, stand back; hope my boots’re up t’it!”

The door, however, gave up its ghost at the first kick crashing backwards to allow full access to the visitors. Inside the group found a well appointed interior, fully furnished, clean furniture, no cobwebs, and an air of having been occupied in the not distant past. Stepping along the short corridor they found a clean kitchen with a variety of fresh food in the cupboards there, water freely available from a sink and tap by the rear door; a gas ring fueled by a gas canister offering the possibility of hot food and drink when wanted.

“Hans, that door, probably the cellar, see if there’s a boiler and if so get it going, hein?”

While the Heinkel pilot took charge of the physical needs of the group the Hurricane pilot strode through the rest of the house, ground floor and upper storey, before they all met again in the living-room.

“Suppose we better get acquainted. My name’s Peter Crawford, Flight Lieutenant.”

“Gerhardt Bartsch, Lieutnant. My crew are Hans Gessner, Ehrhard Bauer, Fridolf Neumann, and Josef Mayer.”

With the introductions over a cosy set-up was quickly put in place within the living-room, especially after Hans did indeed discover and bring to life the boiler in the cellar, the central-heating pipes soon giving of their best.

“First things first,” Peter taking charge now. “a pot of tea and some sandwiches; saw some likely looking cans of processed meat in the kitchen.”

“Allow me!” Gerhardt nodding happily. “Fridolf, if you will? Danke.”

Ten minutes later the group sat round on various sofas and easy chairs enjoying a comfortable afternoon tea as if having been the closest of friends for years past.

Peter, while imbibing of the liquid that revivifies, had been doing some fast thinking; the outcome of which was that basic ground rules were necessary and imperative.

“Lieutenant Bartsch, you must accept that now, presently as we sit here in such a friendly relaxed atmosphere, you and your crew are actually prisoners of War—if you agree and accept this prima facie position we can get along fine until the Rescue bods arrive, OK?”

Gerhardt nodded in agreement, though with a dreary expression of accepting the inevitable.

“Ah! Die bösen Entscheidungen des Krieges! I suppose I must, certainly. Do not worry about our attempting any sort of mutiny; we know we are in Scotland, not Europe—there being nowhere for us to escape to sadly, so!”

“Yes, quite.” Peter much relieved by this stoic recognition of present circumstances. “When the rescue team arrive at the downed planes they’ll find the note I left directing them here so there shouldn’t be much of an interval before they meet us in person; and then, er, well, umm!”

“Yes, certainly.” Gerhardt raising his eyebrows slightly. “Wird in Kriegsgefangenenlagern Sauerkraut serviert? I wonder what British food is like?”

“Are there any storm lanterns anywhere to be found, do you think?” Peter bringing the conversation back on track. “If so, we can light one and put it in one of the windows facing the direction where our planes lie; give the rescuers a line of sight when darkness falls.”

“A good idea, I’ll get my men on the search right away, sir.” Gerhardt agreeing to this necessary aspect. “I think I saw one in the kitchen, actually.”

Half an hour later night had fallen fully, darkness encompassing the house and its environs; the lantern shining brightly from the first floor window as a guiding light for the expected rescuers; there happily being similar lamps in every room. Meanwhile the inmates went through the rest of the building looking for places to bed down.

“Looks like there’re three bedrooms; more than enough for everybody.” Peter nodding sagely. “I’ll stay down here in the living-room with a couple of blankets; no idea when the rescuers may turn up, possibly well after midnight. So if you’re woken by someone banging on the front door in the middle of the night don’t panic, OK?”

Five minutes later Peter was alone, King of his immediate environment, wrapped in a blanket staring morosely out the front window thinking about what he knew not.

“Bloody Heinkels! So much for Hurricane’s being impervious; just a few bullets in the wrong places and down I go, dam’mit!”

Looking out the window was in itself a failed concept, nothing being visible in the dark past the garden wall and gate some ten yards beyond the building’s frontage. Everything else was wrapped in total darkness except for the stars in the clear sky. As to sounds only a few short cracks and bangs, from natural settling and cooling of the house’s frame or faint scuttling’s of mice behind the half-wainscoting that lined the room broke the silence. A few minutes after being left alone Peter had spent some time searching the ground floor rooms for a radio but without success, so even the comfort of listening to the BBC and a music program was denied him.

Thinking along these lines as he stared out the window something past the garden gate suddenly caught his attention. Although all was dark as pitch there appeared some semblance of movement.

“What the hell’s that? Lights? No, eyes; there’s some animal out there. Cat? Dog? Cow, maybe? Perhaps a sheep? Should I go out t’investigate?”

What Peter had noticed was the small reflections of two eyes on a level and close together moving arbitrarily in the dark outside the garden; but something else attracted even more of his attention as he carried on observing the incident.

“They seem rather high off the ground, if I’m seeing them properly. Almost as tall as a man, even taller, maybe. Is that possible? Perhaps it’s a big cow, or maybe even a dam’ bull? If that I better leave it to its own devices: taking on a dam’ bull in the dark is even dafter than my tryin’ t’take down a Heinkel in my Hurricane by myself; me bein’ no kind of an Ace at anythin’!”

Turning from the window he settled himself on the chintz covered easy chair again, wrapping a thin blanket round his nether portions as best he could.

“Better’n a draughty ol’ Nissen Hut I suppose.”

The conditions all round, darkness outside, warmth inside, quiet peacefulness, and nothing to disturb the mind all had their inevitable effect—in short Peter fell asleep within a few minutes, all present difficulties notwithstanding.

—O—

“Whas’sat!”

This ejaculation followed on Peter jerking awake suddenly, though still more than three quarters settled in the Land of Nod. The storm lantern on the table by his side glowed brightly, shadows flickering in the corners of the room but, glancing around there did not seem to be anything essentially out of the general norm to be expected.

“Must’a been dreamin’!”

But of course trying to regain that state of blissful unawareness in deep sleep once more proved unobtainable no matter how hard he tried. Finally, surrendering to the inevitable, he rose, cast his blanket on the floor, and headed for the kitchen to make a soothing cuppa.

Going through the usual requirements consistent with a perfect cup of tea as the wished for outcome took up all Peter’s attention for the next few minutes until, quite suddenly, he felt a chill run down his spine.

“What’s that?”

Something out in the rear yard, a sound of some sort, had made itself known; a sound as of a large animal growling somewhat angrily several times. Not loudly, but consistently and steadily enough to leave no doubt as to its nature.

“Jee-sus! There is something out there!”

Unconsciously his right hand lowered to the holster at his waist where his Father’s old Webley revolver now resided.

“Sounds dam’med loud. I mean, a big animal; don’t think I want t’go out t’investigate, without the aid of a lion-tamer at least.”

Tea-making set aside for the nonce Peter leaned over the white sink peering through the kitchen window at the few feet of cobbled yard the feeble light from the kitchen lamp allowed.

“Only bare cobbles, no sign of anything. Should I? No, dam’ it! God! Is the rear door locked tight?”

Two long strides took him to the entrance in question and a firm rattle of the handle soon assured him of the safely locked condition of its solid frame.

“Thank God for that!”

The sound of steps at the door leading to the corridor connected with the rest of the house made Peter swivel round with a low gasp, hand clawing at the holster on his belt, though without effect as the cover was firmly closed. A few seconds and the drama was over as Gerhardt stood solid and straight before Peter, curiosity writ large on his brow.

“Something is wrong, mein Herr?”

A few seconds allowed for the latest information to be transferred and the German pilot to be in full command of events; he apparently taking it in his stoic stride.

“How big do you think the animal is? And what kind?”

“No idea.” Peter shrugging as he admitted his ignorance of details. “Never seen anything, just noises. But, judging by them it’s bloody big!”

Gerhardt took silent cognisance of this for a while before adding further to the discussion.

“What we need is certainty. How big exactly? A large cat or dog? Something like an enraged donkey or horse? A cow or, God forbid, bull perhaps? Are there any Zooological gardens nearby, do you know? Wild hogs or bears, you understand!”

“Sh-t!”

“Are there wild pigs, boars, or wolves in the vicinity, wissen sie?”

“In Scotland? No, nothing like that.”

The German again frowned over this for a while before replying.

“Unsere Wahlmöglichkeiten scheinen eingeschränkt zu sein; nach Zeit, Ort und Umgebung. The likely answer is probably, to my mind, an escaped bull. What do you think, Lieutnant?”

Peter considered this prospective assumption carefully before shrugging a trifle embarrassedly.

“Sounds likely, but I don’t think so. More in the line of a feline, a dam’ large one, y’see; my reading of the sounds it made.”

“Are there wildcats in the region?” The German seemingly having a wide and detailed knowledge of various wild species.

“A few, I think, but nothing over the size of a, er, fox; very rare an’ normally very shy things, y’know. Too small for what I heard and saw.”

“What exactly did you see, if I may ask, mein Herr?”

Feeling almost as if reverting to his schooldays, facing the questioning of a strict teacher determined to get to the bottom of the boy’s latest unlicensed jape, Peter shrugged his shoulders.

“Apart from what I took at the time to be a set of eyes, rather high off ground level—but it is pitch dark, mind you. And a few low growls or grunts, nothing else. Sounded more cat-like than dog or bovine. That’s all I can say, except I know it’s out there, and it’s dam’ big, and not in a friendly mood.”

Gerhardt sighed softly, as faced with a worrying conundrum.

“I take you at your word, sir, natürlich. Pity we only have the one gun, yours! Mine, and the rest of my crew’s, were left behind at the crash site. Are there any arms in this house, do you think?”

Faced with this possibility for the first time Peter took a moment to consider the matter.

“Well, if this place’s used as a Shooting-box in season—which I think is the case; then there might well be a gunroom somewhere. Whether it’s still stocked when the place’s empty is another question, of course.”

“Perhaps it wouldn’t be a waste of time if I woke my crew and we formed a search party?” Gerhardt making a definitive decision, as a well trained German officer should. “Keine Sorge, if we find weapons we shall stick to the Geneva Conventions in such matters, sir!”

“Dam’ good show!” Peter finding nothing more relevant to reply.

—O—

A short search of the ground floor quickly resulted in unexpected success, one of the German crew striking gold within ten minutes of the search starting. A shout along the corridor bringing everyone else to the door of the room in question Peter stood just within gazing at the revealed layout in front of him.

“God! Looks like the armoury back at base! Enough weapons here t’start a whole new Front somewhere!”

Gerhardt, by his side, nodded agreement.

“Ja! Shotguns-double and single, rifles, even a couple of revolvers. If you examine the drawers in the two display cases there will probably be spare ammunition.”

Suiting the thought to the action Peter soon affirmed this hypothesis.

“Yeah, you’re right; enough ammo here t’arm a whole Wing. Looks like we’re in business, lads!”

“So, what is your plan, sir?”

Caught off-guard Peter finally shrugged again.

“Haven’t got one—not t’say a double-dyed outright plan, as such. Suppose we all go outside, armed t’the teeth like Long John Silver’s crew, search around till we find the dam’ animal, whatever it may turn out t’be, then shoot the f-cker off-hand without benefit of clergy! Would you call that a sustainable plan?”

Gerhardt gazed at the young British officer with something like concern in his blue eyes.

“Im Gegenteil, mein Herr, considering the circumstances, I shouldn’t call that any sort of a plan in any sense of the term whatever. We must come up with something better—much better.”

Falling back to the warmth of the kitchen, where a metal stove provided much needed warmth via its stock of nearby small firewood kindling, a pot of tea and a hastily made pile of strawberry jam sandwiches, the group soon settled to the arduous task of working out just what they could do to counter the as yet still unknown and bodily invisible creature apparently stalking the near environs of the House.

“Wir werden sehr albern aussehen, nicht wahr? If it turns out to be a sheep, or even a cow, no?” Fridolf Neumann, late gunner, asking this with something akin to a slight blush.

“Nobody else here to know, except us!” Peter shaking his head over this. “No-one’ll ever find out, if so. But I have my doubts.”

“Doubts? About what, sir?” Gerhardt pushing his captor to be clear on the subject.

“Well, I’ve seen it—as much as it’s allowed itself t’be seen, that is. And I think it’s large, angry, and dam’med dangerous! What it is I don’t know. God! Could be some strange mutant escaped from some nearby secret research station, this bein’ War an’ all! That’s the theory an’ standpoint I’m goin’ on at the moment, anyway.”

“Ah!” Gerhardt in his turn lost for words.

“We go canny, we stay as safe as we can,” Peter continuing his diversion into fantasy. “we find the dam’ thing, an’ we put it out’ta our misery without the least kind word or act of sympathy—it bein’ Wartime an’ all, an’ all moral bets bein’ off for the duration!”

Here Ehrhard Bauer, radio operator, spoke up.

“In Europe we have some very large horses, very large species—draught horses. They can get as tall as fourteen hands and weigh nearly a couple of tons. Was denken Sie?”

Peter mused on this for a while.

“A possibility, I suppose. Rather anticlimactic, if so, mind you! But better than facing some ghastly mutant monster straight from the mind of H G Wells, certainly. Though we should go with my first idea, for safety’s sake, y’know. Shall we go back t’the gunroom an’ arm ourselves?”

“I think we should all stay together as a group.” Gerhardt considering the set-up as they went along the corridor. “Splitting-up not a good idea in this terrain and at night. All stay close and protect each other from whatever turns up. What do you say, sir?”

Peter, they all now in the gunroom, was already engrossed in choosing between a Holland and Holland double-barrel or a fine Purdey over-and-under specimen.

“What? Oh, yeah! Good idea; yeah, we’ll do that. Safer all round.”

Five minutes later Peter cautiously stepped out the rear door onto the cobbles of the yard ahead of his now heavily armed group of unusual associates, peering into the surrounding darkness with something not far removed from anxiety coursing through his veins.

“Steady as you go, lads. If y’need t’start shootin’ watch out for crossfire, OK?”

“Ja!” From numerous dry throats as they all spread out into a wider line, advancing towards the low stone wall that marked the division between yard and the Terra Incognita of the outer rough terrain.

—O—

The surrounding countryside was made up of uneven heather covered ground like small foothills on the flank of a range of higher mountains; which was nearly the case because, just behind the House some quarter of a mile distant, rose the green sloping side of a round-topped mountain around 2,000 feet in height. Some mile long its four-square solidity made a massive backdrop to the House’s setting. Not that Peter had any intention of leading his assorted band anywhere near it.

“We’ll go slightly over t’the left, miss the dam’ mountain that’s straight ahead. No sense tryin’ t’climb that! Waste of time an’ effort, not t’mention puttin’ us in a dangerous position if we meet anythin’ that might want t’pick a quarrel with us!”

Quarter of an hour later the whole concern seemed more or less a lost cause, nothing having turned up or even been heard except the crackling of the heather beneath their boots.

“Das ist hoffnungslos!” Gerhardt finally losing patience after stumbling over his fifth clump of unforgiving heather. “Wir haben dieses verdammte Unkraut nicht im Vaterland!”

“What’s that?”

“We should pause, and perhaps retrace our steps.” Gerhardt addressing his captor with a certain level of gloom in his voice. “We have found nothing, and nothing has, fortunately, found us! Should we try the other direction, before we become lost here?”

“May as well.” Peter also now in two minds about the whole thing. “Give it a go, certainly; then, perhaps, retreat t’the House an’ tidily lock ourselves in till mornin’? Daylight, y’know, meb’be makin’ all the difference!”

“Wenn sich herausstellt, dass es ein verdammtes Schaf ist, werde ich mich erschießen, verdammt noch mal!”

“What’s that, again?” Peter turning to respond to the anonymous German.

“Josef says he hopes it doesn’t turn out to be a wild goose chase,” Gerhardt helpfully almost fully translating for the British ear. “running after something like an over-sized rabbit; make us all look fools!”

“Ha! No doubt!”

Another twenty minutes stumbling over what seemed interminable fields of heather finally even proved enough for the weary Flight Lieutenant.

“That’s it, folks! Turn round an’ make back for the House; I’ve had quite enough of this!”

Hardly surprisingly there were no cries of opposition, and ten minutes later found the weary searchers once again happily returned to the welcoming warmth and comfort of the kitchen.

“Another four or so hours till 8.00 ack-emma.” Peter focusing on the important point. “If you all want t’hit the hay again I won’t complain, seein’ that’s what I intend doin’! OK?”

“Ja!” A concerted cry from the assembled group reflected the general acceptance of this great plan and, two minutes later, the kitchen was as deserted as if it had never felt the tread or presence of Human footsteps for the last few months; only the subsiding wood ashes in the stove attesting to the reality of the past hour or so.

—O—

The next morning brought a new angle to the besieged airmen; it was just after breakfast and they were all assembled in the living-room with much needed cups of tea discussing their next move.

“Anybody heard or seen anything of the, ah, monster this mornin’?” Peter looking round the faces of his companions with some interest. “Anybody been outside this mornin’, yet?”

“No, sir.” Gerhardt answering for his crew. “Best to stay safe here, I think, whatever the, er, thing outside may be. Are you absolutely sure of what you saw yesterday, Lieutnant? I mean, we aren’t in the throes of pursuing a chimera, by all accounts, are we?”

Peter shook his head vigorously at this perceived calumny.

“It was a devil of a day yesterday, for us all, I agree; shootin’ at each other, then both fallin’ out’ta the dam’ sky t’gether. But what I heard, I heard; what I saw, what little that admittedly was, I saw! There’s an end of it, Lieutnant.”

“Quite-quite.”

This proto-argument was halted in its tracks by the sudden entrance, through the still somewhat broken front door, of an unexpected visitor. The clump of heavy footsteps along the interior corridor heralding the advance of someone unknown, and before anyone could consider their response the caller stood before them, a dour expression on his weather-beaten face—what could be seen of such beneath a wide spreading reddish beard, that is.

“Wha’ the Heel be ye, then? An’ ye’ve crackit the door sumthin’ awfu’; there’ll be consee’kencies aboot that, f’sure.”

“I’m Peter Crawford, Flight-Lieutenant; this’s Lieutnant Gerhardt Bartsch, and his crew. We’ve both recently been shot down in the vicinity and sought shelter here last evening.” Peter doing his impression of the hearty Host. “We’re waiting for our rescue party t’show up; they’re actually dam’ late on the scene, as it happens. D’you happen t’know of any of that sort’a activity goin’ forward nearby, by any chance?”

The man, just under Peter’s height, solidly built and wearing tweed jacket and trousers that had seen long and loyal service, boots looking like relics from the First Great Conflict, eyed the perceived interlopers with icy blue eyes for a few seconds before relenting and cracking what was obviously meant for a wide grin, but looked far more like a snarl.

“Aye, weel, thar ye be, f’sure! So, ye’re here, forbye?”

Rather flummoxed as to what to reply to this statement Peter finally fell back on the obvious.

“—er, yes.”

“Made yersel’s at home, I see.”

Feeling a trifle embarrassed Peter shook his shoulders defensively.

“Well, yes; the needs of War, an’, er, all that!”

The man gazed around again at his uninvited guests, taking especial note of the group of Germans before turning once more to the solitary Briton.

“Ye’re a Sassen-, ah,—English?”

Now feeling entirely out of his depth Peter strove to regain the upper hand in the conversation.

“Yes—yes, quite. As to that, who are you, if I may ask?”

“Gordon Drummond, Head Gamekeeper on the Kyliemuir Estate!”

It was only at this point Peter realised his visitor was himself armed, a long-barrelled shotgun under the man’s left arm, pointing carefully at the floorboards.

“Oh, I see. Well, you’ll be just the man t’give us all some much needed help and information. We’re all, ah, waitin’ for a group of searchers t’find us—any news on that score at all?”

Nodding sagely, as if proprietor of all the knowledge of the Universe, Gordon snorted softly through his beard.

“The Jerry wreck’s bin found, sure, but no sign o’ ye’re plane, Lieutenant; naebody knowin’ ye exis’it till I set eyes on ye ten minutes since. Everyone an’ their sisters scourin’ the moor fer the Jerries here since late last nicht—an’, bedam’, here ye all be; cosy as rats in a shoebox!”

Rather put-out by this comparison Peter struggled for any significant reply, Gerhardt at last coming to his rescue on another topic altogether.

“Sir,” Addressing himself in formal tones to the Gamekeeper. “do you have any sort of large, wild animals of note hereabouts? Animals capable of affording some level of danger to passing strangers, that is? Large, tall, fiery eyed, and prone to snarling in the night unseen?”

Gordon had been engaged meanwhile in searching a pocket of his thick jacket with a gnarly hand, eventually bringing to light a short-stemmed briar pipe. Now, halted in his preparation for the first smoke of the morning, he gazed at his foreign interlocutor with budding interest.

“Ah! Ye’ve caught sicht o’the Beither, have ye? Ye’ll be all the sorrier in yer minds ower that, I bet!”

“Bather? Bother? What?” Peter still completely in the dark.

“Beither, laddie; a kind’a Hobgoblin, snake-like, very large, fiery eyes, haunts water, hence its presence on this dam’ boggy moor. So ye’ve seen sich, have ye?”

Peter paused to consider his options before hazarding any kind of a reply he might instantly regret.

“I’m not sayin’ I saw anything, no. I’m not sayin’ I didn’t see anythin’, either! Or heard it snarlin’ for that matter; or saw its fiery eyes, which I dam’ well did! But no; that is, yes!”

Gordon sighed at this expansively unclear answer, shaking his head mournfully.

“Snarled, ye say? ye sure it snarled at ye? When? Day or nicht?”

“—er,—er, nicht, that is, night—yes, darkest dam’ night. Saw its red eyes, dam’ high off the ground for any animal of this country I’ve ever encountered, and it definitely snarled at me. You know—snarled, aggressively!”

This time Gordon nodded, as having the answer at his fingertips.

“Aye, forbye, that’ll be the cù-sìth fer sure! We hae one that haunts the moor. Ye’re dam’ lucky it onlie barkit the once at ye, sir. It did onlie barkit the once?”

“Yes, well sort’a growled; but you might call it a sort’a bark. Well, more of a snarl, like I said.” Peter now feeling completely out of his depth and comfort zone.

“Aye, the cù-sìth fer sure; not a beastie ye’d want t’meet unexpec’it in the nicht. Aye, weel, all’s fair the noo! Ye all bein’ well an’ solid in yer bones; the same not bein’ the case by any means if the cù-sìth had reely meant ye any harm—jes’ amusin’ itsel’ playin’ wie ye, as’t were, y’know.”

Before Peter could harness what was left of his comprehension to attempt any kind of a logical reply there came another knock at the remains of the front door.

“Hallo! Anyone in here? This’s Captain Fraser, 1st Battalion, search party! Anyone here?”

—O—

The next morning found Peter standing in the office of his Commanding Officer on Brechan Airfield Subsidiary No.1 attempting as best he could to explain the course of events of his late air conflict.

“So the Heinkel shot you up good?”

“Yes’sir.” Peter doing his best. “Splattered my Hurri with maching-guns, then blasted my port wing off with cannon-fire.”

“But you’d already managed t’put a spike in its activities?”

“Yes’sir! Don’t quite recall the exact turn of events but it went down shortly after I’d hit the silk myself. Crew all survived and gave themselves up like gentlemen, thank Heaven!”

“Yes, quite. And all went smoothly after that, I expect? Good idea of yours t’use that old Shootin’-box as a haven till found by the search party.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Nothing happen t’harass your time in the House that night?”

Here Peter considered his options carefully before replying.

“No, nothing, sir. We all had a meal then settled down to a good night’s rest. Thought we heard the search party approaching in the middle of the night, sir; went out t’investigate, but couldn’t hear or see or find anyone, so came back t’the House an’ went back t’bed, sir.”

“Quite. Well, prepare a Report an’ have it on my table tomorrow mornin’. We’ve already got a replacement kite for you; A lady ATA pilot brought a brand new Hurri yesterday, waitin’ in Hangar B for you right now.”

“Great, sir! I’ll go an’ check it over now, sir!”

“Quite—quite!”

* * * * *

The Public saloon of the George Arms, Kyliemuir, later that same morning was packed with its usual early crowd; that is Harry Barnes from Ardle Farm, Brian Venables, from the Ironmongers shop in the town, and Gordon Drummond. Both his listeners at the moment chuckling like schoolboys together.

“An’ he took it all in, like a good ‘un, Gordon?”

“He surely did, that.” Gordon basking in the glory of his story.

“He, an’ those damt’ Jerries, altogether thought ye was tellin’ it straight an’ true?” Harry hardly able to speak through his groans of mirth. “All that claptrap aboot fairies an’ bogles an’ things goin’ bump in the nicht? Ha-Ha!”

“Probably a sheep clearin’ its throat, as they often do.” Gordon descending to realities for once. “Anyhow’s, gave me a bit o’ fun, all the same. Another half-pint all round, boys?”

“Surely, Gordon, thanks.”

* * * * *

That evening, just as dusk was sweeping into dark night, something large, monstrous, evilly-minded, eyes burning crimson, growled softly to itself as it raised its massive frame to its full height gazing out over the wastes of the heather-covered moor. It had long miles to go that night, many things to do and, possibly, some unaware travelers to accost, putting the fear of death into their bones. Yes, a good night altogether for such as it!

The End.