The Flute and the Glen

Jamie began to back away, his heels digging gouges in the soft earth, the pain in his chest flaring in time with his heartbeat. He knew that he would be able to move faster if he turned onto all fours, but he was unable to drag his eyes away from the scene below him.

Whatever moved through the mist did so silently – the grey vapour pushed in front of it in a great swell that cruised soundlessly over the valley, a wave of death that carried all before it.

The mist was swelling, growing in thickness and consistency, and the fall of chill vapour in his cheeks was enough to get Jamie moving faster, oblivious now to the pain in his chest, his legs pumping and his chest heaving as he forced his way over and through the rough heather.

A cry rent the air, a shriek more like an injured animal than a man. Jamie stopped, afraid to even breathe as the mist seemed to inhale, rising and falling in a swell that raised it at least ten feet in the centre. Then there was a sigh, a drawn out groan which was echoed by a last fading drone from the distant pipes. Then all was silent, still and dark.

You can find the complete version of The Flute and the Glen in issue 65 of TBD.

Willie Meikle