the burn tumbled through a hole in the wall that divided the wood from the moor, near the spot where he had first seen Eye of the Wind.
To get to the edge of the wood he had to follow a trail that ran beside the upper reaches of the burn and this was worse than what he had seen already. Stains in strange colours sagged gently downstream and here and there were the silver bellies of upturned, dead fish.
Then he was over the wall and on to the open moor. He had been up there once before, the day he had clambered up to the foot of the crags
of Sgurr Mor and had met the eagle face to face.
It was very hot and still and a dull haze hung over the moor so that, although the sky was clear, Fraser could scarcely make out the ghostly outline of the Sgurr.
The place stank. The burn dropped across the moor in a series of steps with little waterfalls and deep rock pools succeeding each other. In the pools there was the same coloured scum and Fraser couldnât see any water boatmen on the surface. The waterfalls had dried up to a drip and the rocks on either side were plastered with a dry, grey, papery substance that seemed to have dried onto them.
Fraser climbed up the bank, taking care not to touch the grey stuff â just in case. After about ten minutes he heard a noise above him and was able to see, on the other side of the burn, perched dizzily above him, a small caravan, and, leading to it, like a fresh wound in the side of the hill, the new Range Rover Track.
As he watched, a man came out of the caravan with a basin in his hands and walked over to the edge of the burn, just above a point where it plummeted fifteen feet clear into a rock pool. The hands came up, the basin tilted and the water launched itself like a diving snake into space to splash against the rocks below.
Dyer turned and disappeared back into the van.
Fraser climbed closer for a better look. Surely a basin-full of dirty dishwater wouldnât kill fish?
Then the man re-appeared, carrying something heavy with difficulty. He balanced it on the ledge above the fifteen foot drop. This, whatever it was, Fraser realised must be the cause of the poisoning further downstream.
âStop!â he screamed.
Dyer looked up in surprise.
âDonât! Youâre poisoning the fish.â
Dyer ignored him and tipped the contents of the container over the edge.
Fraser was wild with anger. âMurderer!â he yelled. âYou killed the otter and the fish and the frogs.â
âSod off, Sonny,â growled Dyer.
âYouâre killing animals. Youâre a murderer.â Fraser danced with rage.
âI said sod off,â Dyer snarled, âbefore I put my toe on your backside,â and he took a step forward.
âMurderer! Rotten rat!â Fraser turned and fled as the Australian jumped the burn and bounded towards him across the hillside.
He fled for his life down that steep slope; rocks and heather and black peat leaped at him from left and right; rowan branches slapped his face; and then the bracken; he was floundering head high in the bracken like in one of those nightmares when you have to run for your life and find yourself rooted to the spot.
The speed, the dizziness, the helplessness were all so much like the tumblings of his mind that Fraser was afraid he would black out, to be pounced on, not this time by rooks, but by that murderous ogre who, he knew, was only a stranglerâs step behind him.
He didnât black out, but just as he was almost in reach of the boundary wall of the wood he landed awkwardly on a loose stone, felt his ankle turn sickeningly and fell, face down, with his mouth full of ferns.
THE GOAT TRAIL
Bhuiridh*, the bearded, shaggy-coated patriarch, surveyed his domain and his subjects. From a rock overlooking the sparse scrubland of the lower moor he watched for any sign of a challenge to his authority, and his magnificent scimitar horns signalled a threat to anyone foolhardy enough to dispute
To get to the edge of the wood he had to follow a trail that ran beside the upper reaches of the burn and this was worse than what he had seen already. Stains in strange colours sagged gently downstream and here and there were the silver bellies of upturned, dead fish.
Then he was over the wall and on to the open moor. He had been up there once before, the day he had clambered up to the foot of the crags
of Sgurr Mor and had met the eagle face to face.
It was very hot and still and a dull haze hung over the moor so that, although the sky was clear, Fraser could scarcely make out the ghostly outline of the Sgurr.
The place stank. The burn dropped across the moor in a series of steps with little waterfalls and deep rock pools succeeding each other. In the pools there was the same coloured scum and Fraser couldnât see any water boatmen on the surface. The waterfalls had dried up to a drip and the rocks on either side were plastered with a dry, grey, papery substance that seemed to have dried onto them.
Fraser climbed up the bank, taking care not to touch the grey stuff â just in case. After about ten minutes he heard a noise above him and was able to see, on the other side of the burn, perched dizzily above him, a small caravan, and, leading to it, like a fresh wound in the side of the hill, the new Range Rover Track.
As he watched, a man came out of the caravan with a basin in his hands and walked over to the edge of the burn, just above a point where it plummeted fifteen feet clear into a rock pool. The hands came up, the basin tilted and the water launched itself like a diving snake into space to splash against the rocks below.
Dyer turned and disappeared back into the van.
Fraser climbed closer for a better look. Surely a basin-full of dirty dishwater wouldnât kill fish?
Then the man re-appeared, carrying something heavy with difficulty. He balanced it on the ledge above the fifteen foot drop. This, whatever it was, Fraser realised must be the cause of the poisoning further downstream.
âStop!â he screamed.
Dyer looked up in surprise.
âDonât! Youâre poisoning the fish.â
Dyer ignored him and tipped the contents of the container over the edge.
Fraser was wild with anger. âMurderer!â he yelled. âYou killed the otter and the fish and the frogs.â
âSod off, Sonny,â growled Dyer.
âYouâre killing animals. Youâre a murderer.â Fraser danced with rage.
âI said sod off,â Dyer snarled, âbefore I put my toe on your backside,â and he took a step forward.
âMurderer! Rotten rat!â Fraser turned and fled as the Australian jumped the burn and bounded towards him across the hillside.
He fled for his life down that steep slope; rocks and heather and black peat leaped at him from left and right; rowan branches slapped his face; and then the bracken; he was floundering head high in the bracken like in one of those nightmares when you have to run for your life and find yourself rooted to the spot.
The speed, the dizziness, the helplessness were all so much like the tumblings of his mind that Fraser was afraid he would black out, to be pounced on, not this time by rooks, but by that murderous ogre who, he knew, was only a stranglerâs step behind him.
He didnât black out, but just as he was almost in reach of the boundary wall of the wood he landed awkwardly on a loose stone, felt his ankle turn sickeningly and fell, face down, with his mouth full of ferns.
THE GOAT TRAIL
Bhuiridh*, the bearded, shaggy-coated patriarch, surveyed his domain and his subjects. From a rock overlooking the sparse scrubland of the lower moor he watched for any sign of a challenge to his authority, and his magnificent scimitar horns signalled a threat to anyone foolhardy enough to dispute
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