Read The Battle for Duncragglin Online
Authors: Andrew H. Vanderwal
The Battle for Duncragglin
For Jan, Eric, Graham, and Mame
And special thanks to the citizens of the town of Dunbar, who (acting admittedly under the authority vested in them by no one in particular) bestowed upon me the status of “Honorary Scot” with the presentation of a humorous certificate that I display proudly. A greater honor is hard to imagine!
ONTENTS
P
ART I
:
A C
HANGE IN
P
LACE
P
ART II
:
A C
HANGE IN
T
IME
12
Fire
P
ART III
:
A C
HANGE IN
D
UNCRAGGLIN
17
The Captive in Malcolm's Home
ROLOGUE
“T
here it is, Dad! That's where they left it.”
The man glanced up the cliff to where a board was wedged in the rocks. He shook his head. “If even
they
didnae want it, Grant, it cannae be worth anything.”
Undeterred, the boy ran across the sand at the water's edge, leaping clusters of seaweed stranded by the tide. Shells crunched under his boots as he climbed the rocks at the base of the cliff. Reaching the board, he yanked it loose and turned it over.
Yes, this is it!
Here they were, those strange animal engravings that had so intrigued him earlier that day, when he saw that foreign boy holding the board. He examined the engravings closely: the sharp-tusked boar that stood so ridiculously erect on its hind legs; the ant that looked like it was brandishing a weapon; the bird with the long pointy beak and the piercing eye that seemed to stare all-knowingly out from the board.
But the carvings were faint; the wood rotted, green, and slimy. The boy grimaced. His dad was right: this was not the kind of thing that would sell in their Scottish artifacts and
antiques store. Moreover, being waterlogged, it was heavy, and he didn't feel like hauling it back to the car. The only reason he was interested in it at all was because of that foreign boy.
Although he did not want it badly enough to carry it, he did not want to leave it either. That foreign boy might come back for it. So he lifted the board by one end and, with a grunt, gave it his best Scottish caber-toss. The board arced and plonked end-first to disappear underwater. Seconds later, it rolled back up to the surface, where it nodded gently in the drift and tug of the swells coursing over submerged rocks. But instead of drifting away, it was slowly being pushed back to shore by the waves.
The tide must be coming in,
the boy thought. Annoyed, he watched as the board disappeared behind some rocks. He climbed to the water's edge to see where it went. To his surprise, it was gone.
Kneeling low to the water, the boy saw an opening beneath an overhang. Intrigued, he hung his head down further and peered into the darkness. The hollow extended far under the rocks. Wherever it led, it was big enough to suck in a board and make it disappear without a trace.
This was important, and he knew it. This just might be what he and his father were looking for – the way into the underground caverns that legend had it were sealed off ages ago, caverns that his father suspected might contain all kinds of valuable ancient relics, or better yet, treasures … huge chests filled with gold coins, guarded only by helpless grinning skeletons clutching rusted swords studded with priceless, gleaming gems.
Ha!
They would sell it all, the swords too. The boy didn't believe those tales of ghosts and demons; tales of
how people who went in never came out. And
so what
if some people had found a way in and had gotten lost? His father was smarter than that. He wouldn't get lost. They would find things never found before. They would be rich! His father would have what he always wanted. And then he would be content, and then he wouldn't be in the pub all the time, and he wouldn't hit him and his mother anymore, and everyone would be happy….
The boy scampered back up the rocks. Waving urgently, he persuaded his reluctant father to climb around the outcropping.
His father leaned over and shone his torch into the opening. The light traveled a long way down a narrow, water-filled tunnel. The incoming tide was almost to its ceiling. Waves slapped the sides, rose up to fill it completely, and receded as the seawater came gurgling out.
The man let out a low whistle. He straightened. “Yes,” he said softly. “You just might have found it. And if you have, this is the start of something big … something very big.”
A CHANGE IN
P
LACE
T
RAVEL TO
S
COTLAND
A
lex knew he had been to this airport before, back in those early, awful days when his parents went missing. He took in the tall arch of glass, the web of steel girders, and the dizzying array of signs, but nothing looked familiar.
His uncle Larry stayed close beside him, muttering the whole time about how he had to be sure Alex got on that plane. Together they waited their turn at the counter, where a conveyor belt whisked away Alex's battered brown suitcase and his ticket was exchanged for a boarding pass. Together they waited their turn at the security check, below a sign that read
PASSENGERS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.
“But I need to accompany the boy to the gate,” his uncle argued, fretfully running his hand over the top of his balding head. “He's only twelve, and I
have
to make sure he gets on that plane!”
The security agent held up her hand. “We'll have an airline agent accompany him the rest of the way, sir,” she said, with a quick glance at Alex's boarding pass. She beckoned
impatiently for Alex's bag. Dismayed, Alex watched as she dropped it onto a moving conveyor belt that fed into a big machine.
Alex didn't want his comic books damaged – they were the only things of his father's that he had left. He'd found them years ago in a damp and mildewy box, pressed into the furthest recesses under the basement stairs of his uncle's house.
“Yeah, sure, I don't care. Just keep them in your room,” his uncle had said.
They were classics: old, illustrated versions of famous books. Among Alex's favorites were
Journey to the Center of the Earth, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court,
and
The Time Machine;
but there were many more, so many great adventures in such faraway places and such distant times.
The only reason the comics had survived all these years was because Alex's father had wrapped each one in a plastic envelope. Even so, many of the pages were weak and disintegrating.
A guard beckoned for Alex to pass through a metal detector.
“Bye, Uncle Larry,” Alex said quietly.
“Be sure you get on that plane!”
The guard glanced at an instrument panel and waved him on. Alex squeezed past the other passengers at the far end of the X-ray machine and snatched up his bag of comics before their carry-on bags could bunch up around it.
Ahead were several long crowded corridors. Alex checked his boarding pass. The ticket agent had circled gate number 5B, but that was not much help. He dreaded the
thought of missing his flight, especially the part where he saw his uncle again.
He took a deep breath.
Well, first things first.
He knelt to tie up his laces.
“Alex Macpherson?”
A uniformed woman was standing over him. “Come,” she said. “I'll take you to your gate.”
Far from missing his flight, Alex was the first to board. The announcement had said families with children could board first, and Alex figured that meant him – even though he had no family.
Happy to discover that he had a window seat, Alex pulled a comic from his bag and settled in to reread the battle conquests of Sir William Wallace in
The Scottish Chiefs.
His favorite part was where Wallace takes a castle by surprise.
But he was distracted, and his mind wandered.
“You're going to stay with your aunt Fiona for the summer,” his uncle had announced, only a few days before. Alex had heard his uncle on the phone, working out the details. “I'll pay for the flight, but I see no reason to pay for his room and board. He's your nephew too. I don't see why you can't share more of the burden.”
Alex didn't care to know the details of what they ultimately worked out. From what he'd heard, he was to stay with his dreaded aunt Fiona in Scotland for the summer. He had met Aunt “Finicky” the year before, when she was over for a visit. She had paid him little attention, other than to ask him to fetch this or that. Her husband had been a merchant seaman who'd spent most of his time in pubs. “He drank himself to death,” Aunt Fiona had told Uncle Larry. “It served him right.”
A leather bag dropped onto the seat next to him. A plump, middle-aged man with neatly parted hair hoisted a small suitcase into the overhead bin. Snapping the bin shut, he moved the leather bag to the floor and plopped himself down.
“Hello, traveling alone?” he said, with a friendly smile.
“My aunt is meeting me at the airport,” Alex replied hesitantly, over the top of his comic book.
“How nice. What's that you're reading?” The man tipped up his glasses. “Remarkable! You know, I'm studying that very period of Scottish history. I'm a professor of archaeology at the University of Edinburgh. Thomas Macintyre's my name.” He extended his hand. “Yours?”
Oh, no. Not one of these talkative types.
Alex stifled a sigh. He mumbled his name and reluctantly held out his hand.
“Macpherson, you say.” Professor Macintyre gave Alex's hand a rapid little shake. “Now that's a fine name – goes way back in Scottish history, back to even before the time depicted in that comic book you're reading.”
Alex raised the comic and made like he was going to read.
“Did you know that many of your ancestors fought in the Battle of Dunbar in 1296? That was a terrible day for the Scots; thousands were slaughtered. It's not that the Scots were poor fighters; the English simply had better weapons, tighter discipline, and superior strategy. But that was before William Wallace came along – oh, yes, that very same William Wallace you're reading about. He changed everything. Oh, how he knew strategy – he outmaneuvered the English at almost every turn.”
