“Yes, I’m familiar with that story, too,” said Soulis. “It’s one of her best known. In cultural studies they call it a ‘Dream’ story: versions of it are found in societies all round the world. They’re always about a hero who dreams of buried treasure then looks for it in the place the dream indicates. Sometimes he finds it, sometimes he doesn’t.” He added, “Naturally, in the Scottish versions, he doesn’t!”
We both smiled at that.
“As for Meg Millar’s life, not much is known about her, not even whether she was actually born in Ayrshire, or the dates of her birth and death,” said Soulis. “But the very fact that a collector of fantasies is used by Macbane as one of the authoritative witnesses to the cloud would again suggest it’s pure fiction.”
4
He checked his watch again. He’d been talking a little faster and louder the last few minutes.
“Well, it’s five to noon,” he said. “I think I’ve caught you up on everything of interest I’ve come across so far. If you want to get out of here before those chimes begin again, you’ll need to be on your way.” His fingers stroked The Obsidian Cloud once more. “Would you mind if I keep the book until my inquiries are finished? I could work with a photocopy, but it’s not quite the same thing as having a real book in hand.”
I assured him that he could keep the original as long as he wished, and he thanked me profusely. I could see he’d become very attached to it.
On our way to the stairs, he kept talking.
“Let me assure you once again, we’ll keep working hard to solve all the problems,” he said. “As you can probably tell, from my perspective The Obsidian Cloud has been an exceptional find. It may not be a work of the very highest literary quality, but it’s in a tradition of Scottish fantasy literature going all the way back to the Middle Ages. In fact it’s really quite a bizarre example of the genre and may have vague links to the even earlier European tradition of the speculum—have you come across that? It’s the Latin word for ‘mirror.’ Some of the ancient metaphysical scholars thought that every single thing in this world was a symbol of everything else — that in a way, they mirror each other. A clergyman such as Macbane might well have been familiar with that tradition. Anyway, my assistant and I are determined to find out everything we can about just who the Reverend K. Macbane is. Though there’s always the chance we’ve already come to a dead end.”
WE SHOOK HANDS at the top of the stairs and he promised he’d write if any other discoveries were made.
“I hope you enjoy your journey to the Uplands,” he said. “Wouldn’t it be interesting if you ran into someone who still remembered you?”
That was precisely what I was hoping, but I didn’t say so. In fact I’d no time to say anything, for he spoke first:
“You’d better hurry — the clock’s about to strike noon!”
I ran down the stairs as fast as I could and got through the front door just as the building began its pre-chime tremor. The noise of workday traffic in the street only partly mufled the first enormous clang from the clock tower as I rushed along the sidewalk away from it.
BUT I DIDN’T GO BACK in the direction of the Strath Hotel. On my way to the centre I’d realized that the area wasn’t all that far from the house where I’d lived with Deirdre, the cat lady, and Jacob, the violinist. I’d never forgotten the kindness of that odd pair to me in my time of need and wondered if they might still live there. When I arrived at where their house should have been, however, I saw that the entire part of the street had also been levelled long ago. A number of ultra-modern university residences now took up the space.
Again I felt sad, as well as slightly paranoid — as though some malevolent force had set out to erase all of these important traces of my former life. But of course, that was nonsense. Time and Progress were at work — there was nothing personal in it. They’d not the slightest interest in the nostalgic longings of Harry Steen from the Tollgate. I turned away and walked back towards the Strath.
I ATE SOME LUNCH then went to my room and scribbled a few pages of notes on what the curator had told me while it was fresh in my mind. I’d promised Frank I’d give him as complete an account as I could when I got home. Afterwards, still quite tired after my restless night, I lay down and tried to nap for an hour. But it was useless. Two main contenders — fascination over the new information the curator had given me and uncertainty about the upcoming journey to Duncairn — fought an all-out battle for my attention. Mere sleep didn’t stand a chance.
In the end, I got up, packed my bag, paid my bill, and set out for the Uplands. By the time I’d got to the outskirts of Glasgow, a mix of city smog and snow had slowed traffic enough for me to realize that the journey might take a good deal longer than I’d planned. The drive south was like a funeral procession all the way to the coastal town of Ayr, where I stopped for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. It was pitch-dark now, and I contemplated finding a hotel for the night. But the snow had begun to slacken off enough that I decided to keep going. I set out along the winding eastern road into the hills.
THE UPLANDS
1
Even though the snow was light, I had to drive cautiously, so it was all of two hours before I came through a pass in the hills— and suddenly I was in Duncairn. The road from the coast now became, for the next half mile, the main street through the town. It was lined at intervals by lampposts of the gallows type, with feeble bulbs hanging from many of them.
I’d been prepared for a town that was more or less rubble, after what Marsha Woods had told me. But from what I could see the roofs and walls of the buildings were fairly intact, though many of the windows were broken and there was no sign of people. Certainly, there were no footprints on the snow of the sidewalks or tire marks on the road. So Duncairn was still here, though it seemed to be a ghost town.
I reached the town square, noting the deserted buildings that had once been Kirk’s Pharmacy, the police station, and Mackenzie’s Café. The war memorial in the little park seemed to have survived, the three bronze soldiers with bayonets still at the ready, straining with blind eyes towards an invisible enemy. The Bracken Inn, on the corner of the square, was the only building that was lit up. I parked on the street in front, got my bag from the trunk, and hurried through its door.
During my long-ago stay at Duncairn I’d never been inside, but from the look of the lobby, it probably hadn’t changed much since then. The floral carpet was wilted and worn, a set of yellowing stag horns jutted out over the front desk, and the photographs of long-ago revellers on the walls were mostly in black and white. Scratchy piped music and the smell of fried meat filled the air.
I rang the desk bell and waited. A thin, middle-aged woman came along a dark passageway to greet me.
“Yes, there are indeed rooms available,” she said in answer to my inquiry. She had a southern English voice. I filled in the various pieces of information she needed. She gave me a room key and said the dining room would be open till eight.
My room on the second floor was ordinary enough, with the usual hotel furnishings. I stood for a while at the window — it looked over the square — then sat on the bed, overwhelmed with sadness. No doubt it was a normal reaction, coming back to a place you haven’t been in for many years — a deeper awareness of your own mortality, and that the world will persist without your presence.