Shot Through The Heart (Supernature Book 1) (15 page)

The minister was a tall, stout man in his late fifties, sleepwalking through his sermon. Mark suspected that he no longer believed his own words, but was going through the motions.

He waited at the end, keen to see the interactions between the minister and his flock. There were none. The faithful merely got up and left, stopping outside for a catch-up with each other. One of the features which Mark had in the plus column of religion was that it bound communities together - the flock in Kinbrace seemed to have largely distanced themselves even from that. Quickly, they all left the church in their directions, heading to their cars or houses.

Mark chose then to approach the minister. He introduced himself, but not his vocation or purpose. "Not much of a crowd," he said.

The man gave a world-weary sigh. "What can you do?" he asked, rhetorically. "The flock is dwindling. There are too many non-believers in the area."

"Non-believers," said Mark, "or believers of something different?"

"I'm not against other faiths," said the minister. "Islam and Judaism and what have you."

"What about something that's more akin to your faith but the other way round?" asked Mark.

The minister raised an eyebrow. "Something like that," he said.

Mark smiled. "Still, it looked full," he said.

"Aye, well, these days I only have to perform one service a week," said the minister. "Back in the old days, I'd have to do three sittings, plus a service on a Saturday night. Not these days." His eyes glazed over and he shook his head. "Not these days."

"I'm writing a book on the Highland Clearances," said Mark. "Non-fiction. I just wondered if I could ask you some questions on the religious aspects of the Clearances?"

The minister's eyes lit up. "Why certainly," he said, obviously eager to talk about something that didn't relate to his failing day job. "Come on through and have a cup of tea. Or something stronger, if you're partial?"

"Tea would be fine," said Mark, feeling the dark edges of the hangover he'd incurred in Inverness.

The minister led Mark through to the back of the church to a small office, a windowless room with a kettle and a desk. The walls were bare except for a couple of church posters. On the desk were a notebook and a large-format copy of the Bible with Post-Its hanging out. The minister flicked the kettle on then disappeared into some other part of the church, returning moments later with another chair and a spare mug. He spooned instant coffee into one and instant tea - something Mark hadn't seen in years - into another, as Mark set up his recording equipment.

"I've not got any milk," said the minister, rubbing the back of his neck.

"That's fine," said Mark, though it was anything but.

The minister seemed intent on watching the kettle boil - probably one of the few highlights of his day. It clicked off and he still sat there. Mark cleared his throat. The minister jumped and poured hot water into the mugs, stirring vigorously before handing one to Mark.

"Now," said the minister, sitting at his desk, "what would you like to know?"

Mark outlined his theories and the progress he'd made to date. The minister started looking interested, but it quickly waned and he focused on staring down into his mug as the steam wafted up.

"So, basically," said Mark in conclusion, "one of the things I wanted to get was a theological view of the Clearances, to see if there was any possibility of an anti-Catholic motivation."

"Well," said the minister, after he took a sip of coffee, "I'd say that there was certainly a lasting legacy of religious change. You seem like an educated young man, so I'll assume that you know that these parts would have been Catholic until the turn of the last century."

He took another drink of coffee.

"There wasn't a Presbyterian church in Kinbrace until just after the First World War, would you credit it? The parish had a Catholic church which burnt down just after the Great War, and went to ruin. Nobody wanted to rebuild it. My predecessors opened this place up and the rest is history. It may not be much, but at least I can honestly say that I have served my community and tried to make a difference in the wider world."

"I'm sure you have," said Mark. He couldn't spot where another church could have been in the tiny village. "Is any of the church still standing?"

"Indeed," said the minister. "The ruins are off down a country lane. Easy to miss them. There are a couple of walls still standing. I'll show you them after our coffee, if that's okay?"

"That would be brilliant," said Mark, glancing at his mug, its contents untouched. "One thing I wanted to ask, though, one of the local people I interviewed said there had been some notion of 'strange goings on' at the time, which is frustrating me. I wondered if you'd know anything about it?"

"Well, you might just be in luck," said the minister. "I'm actually from the area. I grew up in Ruthven and I still bide there. There's nothing that's been passed down in church doctrine, of course, but my parents - God rest their souls - used to talk about it a fair amount, especially after my father had a nip in him. There was talk of the devil being around these parts and other funny stuff happening. Nothing too specific that I can remember, you know, but certainly talk of funny business."

The vague talk was starting to anger Mark. It seemed like something had happened, but either nobody could quite recall how funny, or weren't prepared to say. It was a long time ago and none of it seemed to be written down, but it was frustrating to have a potential treasure trove of information just out of reach.

He'd played with it earlier when he asked about the inverse religion so he just came out with it. "What sort of thing are we talking about?" he asked. "Devil worship?"

The minister's eyes suddenly flared. "Who told you that?" he asked.

Mark shrugged. "I heard from various sources in and around Ruthven," he said. "There are stories of satanic worship being commonplace from about the middle of the nineteenth century."

"Aye, well," said the minister, "that was before the church burnt down." He finished his coffee and got to his feet. Mark still hadn't started his drink, and didn't particularly want to. "Come on, son, I'll show you the old church."

The minister locked up, then led Mark away from the village, hugging the side of the main road, though no cars passed them. He turned down a small lane by a shabby row of cherry trees past the train station, the midday sun beating down.

They walked for a hundred metres or so and then Mark spotted it - two walls of an ancient, stone building, the roof and other two having long since collapsed in. The stone was scorched black and overgrown with green - moss, nettles and lichen with copious buddleia adding a splash of purple. Mature oak and beech trees had grown up as the building had crumbled away, and now cast an eerie shadow. The heavy, wooden front door to the church was still upright in one of the walls, wedged in place by rubble and debris.

"Worse state than most Roman ruins," said the minister.

Mark gave a short laugh. "I know exactly what you mean," he said.

In his teens, he'd gone through a period of obsession with the Roman Empire and had visited every site within driving distance of Edinburgh: the Antonine Wall between what would become Glasgow and Edinburgh, a couple of camps north of Perth and down to Hadrian's Wall near Newcastle. He still had the passion - it was what had got him into history, though his interest switched to social history at school.

"Can we go inside?" asked Mark.

The minister nodded. "I don't see why not," he said. "It might be dangerous, but as long as you don't go suing God for anything, then we should be fine."

He led Mark around the corner to a break in the wall. The slate roof and one wall had collapsed into the church, crushing the pews and the altar.

"Wonder what they did to anger God," said Mark.

The minister fixed a hard stare on him. "That's not something to joke about," he said.

Mark felt himself blush slightly. "Okay," he said.

Looking across the debris, he saw a clear path, figuring that generations of local kids had used this as a den, even though he still hadn't seen much evidence of children in the area. He walked slowly across the floor, the minister keeping his distance just outside. Bees and butterflies populated the space, indifferent to Mark's presence.

Inside, shaded from the sun as it was, Mark felt that the place had a post-apocalyptic feel. Standing there, he could believe in the supernatural. The church pushed the idea of a benevolent God - one that could occasionally be hard and judgmental - but the architecture certainly encouraged fear of a higher power, rather than joy.

He tried to block out his recent experiences with wind and wild dogs. He could feel a panic attack appear at the edges, his vision starting to blur. He concentrated on his breathing and decided to face his fear.

In the other standing wall, a large window had been carved out of stone. The remains of a stained-glass window, the bottom left quadrant still fixed in place, was mired under years of dirt and decay. He moved closer and rubbed at the glass. He slowly started to reveal the colours - the sun probably shone directly through the window at this time of year, except now the glass was obscured by the trees.

The art was exquisite, a group of people in drab clothes hiding in the shadows of the church. In the foreground, a monk wore classic brown robes, head shaved into a tonsure, holding up a Bible and a cross. Next to him was a demonic figure, most of its head missing. It looked like there was fire coming from the skull. Mark remembered a comic character that had that sort of thing, but couldn't remember the name - Nicolas Cage had starred in a film version - but it was a flaming skull whereas this engraving was a normal head.

He retraced his steps through the ruins. The minister was mouthing incantations as Mark approached.

"Didn't think that you'd be into that," said Mark. "I thought all that crossing yourself was a Catholic thing. Aren't you rationalists or something in your church?"

"This is not a good place to be," said the minister, his face now a white sheet. "I should never have shown you."

Mark didn't know what to make of it - somehow he'd pulled the man out of his daily reverie and into a real world of spiritual trauma. "I want to show you something," he said.

The minister looked worried. "I'm not going inside," he said.

"It's fine," said Mark. "We should be able to see it from the outside."

He led him round, navigating his way through large bramble bushes. The window was darker on this side, and covered in much more dirt. Mark rubbed his hand against the glass.

Mark jerked his hand back, instinctively sucking at the cut on the pinkie of his left hand. He hadn't expected the glass to be sharp.

"You want to watch that round here," said the minister.

Mark sucked the wound. "Infection, right?" he asked.

"That and other things," said the minister.

Mark had cleared most of the mud, leaving a small, bloody smear across the glass. He noticed a detail he hadn't seen on the other side - in the background was a group of figures and some dogs. Mark looked closer but he could swear a couple of the figures were turning into dogs. Dogs that looked just like the one in Ruthven.

"What's this?" he asked, pointing at the window, the panic attack closing in again.

The minister's eyes widened. "Good Lord," he said. "I've never seen this before."

"It was just there," said Mark. "All I did was clean it. Do you know what it is?"

The minister shook his head. "The devil," he said. "Satan." He crossed himself and muttered some prayers. "This is why the building burned down."

 
"You're saying the building burnt down because of a monk fighting the devil?" asked Mark.

The minister turned and started walking off. "I cannot stay here," he said.

Mark had spent another hour or so in Kinbrace, using his phone to take some photos of the glass and the area surrounding the church.

He'd tried calling Adam to see if he could come over and photograph the church, but the reception wasn't even a single bar, so he decided to defer it to another day.

There were very few other settlements around - he cycled five miles up the main road through the barren landscape, then decided to turn back and stop avoiding his writing. The weather was hot for the Highlands - almost clearing twenty degrees - and the air was still. As he bombed back through Kinbrace, he saw the minister walking outside the church, lost in a daze.

He headed back along what the signpost told him was the B871, the same road that Ivor had driven him down almost a week before. It was a single-track road, with the occasional passing place - not that he had cause to use them. He followed it towards Ruthven, lined with telegraph wires to the left and a drystone dyke to the right, crossing a bridge beside a modern house.

Further on, he came to another house with a patch of bare grass in front and a smallholding behind, sheep and hens wandering around one of the fields. As he cycled, Mark tried to decide if it would be good to tell the story of the modern crofters - there was no common link between the displaced peoples and their present day counterparts, no shared ancestry, but it would show a fascinating
what if
. In another world, the road he cycled down could easily be lined by a series of smallholdings, thousands of independent people living off the land or providing services to their neighbours, the population density in the hundreds per square mile, rather than barely being in the tens.

He powered on, starting to feel better from the cycling, accepting that his lethargy was drink-related and nothing worse. One of the tributaries to the loch system around Ruthven cut in from its meandering and accompanied him. He felt the wind start to pick up as he neared the village, seeing what John meant about the microclimate.

He noticed something jump across the river to his left where it flowed into a small loch. He stopped and got off the bike, trying to work out what was following him. Then he saw it - the dog. The wind worsened as it raced towards him.