Feather: A Ghost Story

eternity.

One

There was a clatter and a jostling of wings. A feather broke loose and caught the breeze. It floated over a boggy pond, stalled and fell, the quill just breaking the inky surface. Slowly, it began to rotate. Caught by the current, the feather skirted sphagnum moss and cotton grass. Momentarily, it teetered on the brink of a fall, blood leaking from it and testing the descent. It slid from a glistening rock into a deeper pool, disappeared under an overhanging, ragged tussock, and bobbed down the middle of a stream.

The newborn burn broke free of the moor and took shelter in a wood of low, tangled stems. Someone sat there on a stump, crying. The feather slipped in and out of dappled light. The roar of a waterfall grew closer, and the sobbing became less distinct. Over the lip and into an upward draught it tumbled. Airborne again, it slewed from side to side as gravity fought the wind for control. Falling into the deep shade of a gorge, it disappeared temporarily from view. A beam of sunlight picked out the iridescent greens and purples across its flank as it re-emerged. The river fell, exhausted, upon an open field, and stretched its braided rivulets between the vermillion mats of turf.

Elliott looked out at the scenery from the car window. He was sitting in the back. His younger brother, Kevin, was snoring loudly against his shoulder. Headphones were splayed awkwardly across Kevin’s face, tinny tones revealing his taste for ancient rock music. The vehicle smelled of the damp, and condensation was making it difficult to see more than the boldest outlines of mountain, island, forest and loch. Elliott gathered up the sleeve of his jacket and wiped the surface. The cold swathe of water that he lifted onto the fabric reinforced his prejudice against the family venturing this far north in May. Romantic notions about the Highlands of Scotland were easier to sustain at a distance, he decided.

Through the arc of clear glass, Elliott watched the approaching cripple-hump of an old stone bridge. Further to the left, through a wood-scape of young birch trees, he could see the foam-draped banks of a small river, where it opened into the lake. Mist hung a little further out, like a part of a painting yet to be resolved. The car braked suddenly. Mike, Elliott’s father, swore copiously then cast a guilty look into the rear view mirror and apologised. His mind had wandered away from the road towards darker things, and he hadn’t noticed how it narrowed towards the neck of the bridge.

A long and unanticipated night’s drive from the English borders was catching up with them all. Kevin gave a short, dry cough and began to wake up. His mother closed the brochure on her lap and stuffed it into the glove compartment, with unnecessary force. A look of long-suffering disapproval on her face went unnoticed by her husband, but Elliott felt the force of it through her vanity mirror. She turned around in the front passenger seat and smiled a forced smile at her offspring, as compensation.

Something caught the light as the car crossed the river. It was floating rapidly away, but Elliott had a clear view of the feather. As he followed its path, concentrating hard to distinguish it from the troubled and broken surface, he was overwhelmed by a strange sensation: his insides were being drawn away; there was a physical connection to this trivial object. As he sat squirming in his seat to break the bond, his brother mumbled in protest at the unwanted disturbance, then mirrored his father’s frustration by swearing.

Elliott had read of ravens inhabiting lofty Scottish peaks - messengers for the dark forces swirling between these islands in the sky - and wondered if the feather had come from one of those. It had appeared too large to belong to a crow. Nobody else in the family would be remotely interested in such details of things natural - certainly not Kevin - but Elliott craned his neck and squinted. It was gone, though the quill had penned a memory as it flitted across the inky surface. A vision of beating wings, sharp dark beaks and teardrop eyes failed to connect with anything he could actually recollect. Elliott tried to focus, but this only made him realise how dehydrated he was, and that he had a headache.

His brother broke his reverie, grabbing Elliott’s thigh in a claw-like embrace as he struggled to sit upright. By the time Elliott had swivelled around and pushed Kevin roughly across the back seat, the bridge, the river and the feather were gone. He noticed the broken outline of the hotel looming in the middle distance, and wondered aloud if they would arrive too late to order a cooked breakfast.

The car slowed once more as the road swung gently uphill and slightly away from the loch. It crawled through granite gateposts and rumbled across a cattle grid. Elliott’s innards reacted violently to the sudden shaking and his head began to pound. Dizzy and faint, he slumped forward, hitting his head on the hard plastic trim of the seat in front of him with an audible thud.

Are you okay, son? Elliott’s father glanced around in concern. As he did so, the car slid over the edge of an expansive, undulating lawn, which doubled as a par three golf course.

I said this journey would be too much. Elliott’s mother, Jean, berated her husband, but his attention was focused on regaining the tarmac. Are you sure you’re all right, Elliott, my dear?

Elliott said nothing. For a second he didn’t even recognise his mother’s voice; it came from far away, from a memory. Everything was strange, nothing familiar. Where on Earth was he? Had he been dreaming, or was this here and now his reverie? He could feel the cold of damp grass invading his clothing, easing the stinging pain of an injured back. Something was striking at his abdomen with purposeful violence, intent on liberating the contents. Which was real, the pain in his head or that consuming his torso? Elliott was momentarily torn between worlds.

Stop the car. Kevin, the sixteen year old, was uncharacteristically the more adult, casting his headphones aside and placing a strong arm around his brother’s shoulders. He brushed the long, dark fringe from Elliott’s eyes and lay the palm of his hand across his forehead. Christ, you’re a block of ice, bro, he said, in a dry and rasping voice.

Close contact with his brother helped Elliott to come around. Despite the three year age gap and entirely different habits and appearance, they had always been close. Taking in a few deep, exhaust-stained breaths, he concentrated on reassembling the experiences which had led him to Scotland. He remembered the frustration of heavy congestion, during the first day’s drive from the family home in the West Midlands. Then had come the Premier Inn, near Dunblane. An argument there, brought on by exhaustion, had almost ended the expedition; no record existed of their booking. Elliott’s thoughts settled on the fraught, dark, unexpected extra journey, which was only now drawing to a close.

I’m fine, he lied, just knackered. He recalled the endless rumbling of the road, the rattle and grind of a car forced to work beyond its years, and the sickening swaying as they pierced the vortex of near endless night.

Jean was glaring at Mike over the top of her horn-rimmed spectacles. It was a searching look, but Elliott knew that was partly because she couldn’t see her husband clearly. He wondered what it would be like to live in a world where everything had its own aura. Jean pulled the glasses from her face, something she did often for dramatic effect, snapping the case around them so loudly that Mike was bound to react.

Don’t say it, don’t say it, he said, as he spun the offside wheels on the soft verge again, leaving another muddy tyre track through otherwise immaculate turf.

Jean desisted. The tiredness etched into her husband’s furrowed brow was clear to see. He was pale and sweating, and his head hung slightly lower than normal as he fought an ever growing urge to fall asleep. A look verging upon sympathy spread across Jean’s features. It made her look younger, and possibly even motherly.

The grounds expanded around them as they drove on. Like Jean, these now appeared more embracing and nurturing. A sign welcomed them in bold, proud letters to the Ardnamachan Lodge and Leisure Park. A second displayed a large, multi-coloured map of the complex. Blocks of yellow symbols for chalets curved across the light green sections of lawn, nestled beside the blue expanse of lake, and partially encircled the large grey blocks representing the main buildings at the centre.

An unbroken border of pine lay a short way up the hill to the right of the signs. A few of the wooden chalets were just visible between the flaky trunks. The waters in the opposite direction were partly obscured by neat hedgerows, herbaceous borders, and a couple of low buildings of indeterminate function. A lane led off in that direction. Mike stopped the car at the junction and stared at it uncertainly, as he had done at several other soggy intersections during the night. He couldn’t see beyond a line of rhododendron bushes, partway down the hill. Deciding against the turn, he drove on between a pair of tennis courts and a small artificial soccer pitch. These were superseded by a large, modern sports centre. Two families stood on top of the marble steps in the entrance porch, smiling and chatting happily, their damp hair testament to morning swims and saunas.

Blonde alert. Kevin grinned at his older brother and gestured towards an attractive young lady in flower-print shorts and a sleeveless, dark blue blouse. She was riding towards them on a bicycle, identical to several other hire bikes parked up by the pool. Her hair was as flat and tarnished as old silver, as though it was reflecting the overcast sky and leaden waters. Elliott loved the contrast to the gaudy colours of the welcome map. There was much about this place which suited his mood.

Fit, he agreed, as the girl pedalled past, head back and petite nose and chin pushed slightly upwards. As the boys swivelled instinctively in their seats to track her progress, she steered across the road and down the drive at which they’d so recently dithered. Elliott thought she had the look of someone trying just a bit too hard to be oblivious to their presence, then shook his head as he remembered that most girls actually were.

Their father chuckled with new-found positivity. Nothing much wrong with you two, then. I’m guessing this holiday just got a lot more interesting. His comment prompted nothing but a dismissive snort, although, or course, he was correct.

The road ended in a cramped car park in front of the main house. There weren’t any free spaces. Mike stopped the car with a jolt and looked towards the red double doors within the building’s grand portico, as though waiting for them to swing open and reveal a welcoming party. A rather formal looking, middle-aged lady in a tweed suit and thick, opaque glasses did emerge, but she dodged past their vehicle and disappeared up some steps beside a low apartment block.

Someone here just like you, Ma, Kevin commented.

His attempt at humour was met with stony silence.

Perhaps you should get out? Mike addressed his wife with an air of considered caution. He continued to stare at the now empty portico, as though his one strategy - continuing to move forward - had finally been thwarted.

Jean fussed through a document wallet, looking for a confirmation-of-booking sheet. Hopefully, this time, someone’s actually expecting us, she observed, pointedly, having left the arrangements for the previous night’s accommodation to her husband. Come with me, Elliott. You need some fresh air.

Elliott pushed open the rear passenger door. It creaked disobediently. He found himself feeling blindly for the car roof, having stood up too quickly and allowed his dizziness the opportunity to return. The separate parts of the gothic structure in front of him took their time before finally ceasing to move around, having failed to resolve where each piece might more comfortably fit. The uneasy jumble of roofs, eaves and chimneys which the main building supported all looked vaguely familiar. Smoke from the tallest stack mixed with the low cloud, so that it was hard to tell which was of earthly and which of heavenly origin. It was not, Elliott concluded, a summery scene.

He followed his mother unsteadily across the car park, his bones and joints grinding and straining as though from premature old age. The whole edifice became less impressive as they approached the entrance. The grand roof disappeared from view and the frontage was plainer: an ineffectual mix of rough-cut local stone and brick edging, probably in poor imitation of somewhere architecturally much finer.

Which way to Reception, do you think? Jean asked.

Through the doors and turn right, Elliott responded without thinking.

There was a shout of alarm from behind them. Mike was trying to squeeze the car into half a space beside a low wall, with the help of the vaguest of hand signals from Kevin. Elliott and his mother exchanged knowing smiles.

Come on, we’d better make ourselves scarce, she said.

Elliott winked and followed her in through the heavy doors. How was it that he appeared to know this place? Its familiarity was instantly disconcerting. He must have been somewhere similar in the past, he told himself, though was not entirely convinced. As a family, they had certainly ranged widely across the country in his younger days, although not nearly so much in recent years. He could picture a large open fireplace beneath a carved mantle, flanked by comfortable armchairs, and a grand staircase with a red carpet and a heavy balustrade.

Sure enough, there it all was, laid out unmistakeably in front of him. Elliott shivered involuntarily, then stopped and closed his eyes. The scene did not disappear and nor did his feeling of nausea. When he could force himself to look more closely, he was relieved to find that all the details were somewhat less familiar. A couple of elderly male guests lounged in the chairs, reading copies of a local newspaper. A display board stood in the middle of the room, advertising the day’s special activities. A flat-screen TV flickered, unwatched, on a wall. Pictures of nearby attractions slid, one after the other, towards a corner of the screen: an inventory of memories yet to be created, as if everything here were pre-ordained.

Elliott couldn’t tear his eyes from the T.V. There should have been a picture in its place on the wall: an old fashioned oil painting with a view of the loch.

Thank goodness for that! his mother exclaimed from the far side of the lobby, as a young man in an open-necked shirt and black trousers held out the keys to their chalet. Jean tossed them across to Elliott as he caught up with her, and both concentrated upon the desk clerk’s directions to their accommodation.

Feeling better? she asked, as they left the front desk in significantly better spirits.

Yes thanks, Mum, although I could murder a cup of tea.

Elliott, you really are such an old man. I thought you’d be a bit trendier, now you’re living away from home.

Being grown up’s too much like hard work. I miss my mum, Elliott groaned in mock despair, and gave his mother a squeeze which made her giggle like a child.

His attention was drawn away, to the top of the stairs. A girl in a long grey skirt and a blue cardigan was sitting to one side of the top step, in semi darkness. Her hair was pulled taut, swept away from a full and pretty face. Elliott met her gaze, but she gave no obvious indication of having noticed him. She appeared to be waiting for someone else to come through the front door, hanging on that moment almost in suspended animation, perhaps awaiting her cue to reprise a comfortably familiar role in close company. The fleeting pang of disappointment which Elliott felt at her lack of acknowledgement confirmed that his father had been correct: the holiday had already become a lot more interesting.

As Elliott emerged back into daylight, this second girl’s image still held his attention. That in itself was unusual; he couldn’t remember a single young lady at college who had piqued his interest. Perhaps hitting his head had affected his personality?

She seemed old-fashioned in contrast to the last girl. She was dressed more like the old people sitting by the fire than a modern teenager. She had an air of boundless patience, untypical of someone of her age. Somehow, these facets added to her appeal. This was the Highlands of Scotland and maybe people here were more traditional in their ways, he reasoned.

Mike had given up on the parking space, as others probably had before, and was attempting a multi-point turn without the aid of Kevin, who was now leaning against a bench on the lawn, with his arms folded in resignation. A newly upbeat Jean snatched back the chalet key from Elliott, shook it in Mike’s direction as though it was a summoning bell, then took over the calls and hand signals. As the engine revved faster and the instructions became more heated, Elliott and Kevin did their best to pretend that they were nothing to do with the pair.

Two

Elliott sat on the edge of his bed, grateful for the opportunity to be alone after the cramped confines of the car. The room was reassuringly stable, whereas the car, pushed to its limits, had lurched from side to side as though trying to break free and take another path. The furnishings smelled of wood and wax. Incongruous oil paintings of stereotypical Spanish scenes occupied three of the walls, suggesting unintentionally that the occupants could have gone to somewhere much warmer. An open window connected his room to a rear veranda, where his parents were also taking the opportunity to relax. He tuned in a little warily to their conversation, knowing that it would set the tone for the week to come.

Like it?

Like what?

The view. The rooms.

There was a pause as Jean considered the question. Yes, I do. Thank you, Mike.

Elliott could almost see the tension leaving his father’s portly frame. He heard the creak of wicker and a long exhalation as he subsided into a patio chair. Where’s our youngster? Mike asked.

Jean gave a dry little laugh. He’s not a kid anymore, you know. We’re lucky he still wants to come away with us.

Lucky, perhaps. Less well off, definitely. Mike repeated the familiar lament, but the tone was unusually warm.

Elliott wondered where his brother was too. He had assumed that Kevin was also making the most of having his own room.

Gone to explore, I expect, Jean said, returning to the question. Oh, and I asked Elliott if he could muster up a kettle; there doesn’t seem to be one in the kitchen and he’s as desperate as we are for a brew.

Elliott bit his lower lip as he realised that he had not only failed to act upon this particular request, but had forgotten it entirely. Lack of tea explained his thirst, and why his headache had so far failed to ease.

I could put a pan of water on the stove, or do you fancy a beer?

Beer, please give me beer, Jean groaned. And bring me my cardigan, it’s on our bed. I was hoping it would be a little warmer out here.

Elliott heard the patio door slide, as his father went indoors. Elliott stood up and ventured a look through the window. Almost on cue, the sun appeared on the far shore of the lake, painting a bracken covered hillside a luminous orange. The contrast made the remaining clouds appear darker and more threatening. They suited the grim, introspective expression fixed to his mother’s face, now she believed herself to be alone. Elliott stepped back a little to ensure that he wouldn’t be noticed, knocking into the green fabric shade of the oversized lamp on the bedside table. Much as he loved his mother, he loved her a lot less when she had been drinking, and that countenance meant that her craving for alcohol was strong. He understood that his father would share his concern, but both knew from bitter experience that it was far easier to placate her demons than to fight them.

Mike returned, set down two bottles on a glass coffee table, and wrapped the cardigan around his wife’s shoulders. She leaned forward in her chair as if she were in pain, pulling the garment tightly across her chest. Light had spread onto the surface of the water.

Blimey, that’s more like it. I’ll need my sunglasses in a minute, Mike said.

You left them at home.

Oh, I did. Yes.

There was an awkward silence. Elliott could feel the tension mounting again, beyond the window frame. He edged away further, and sat back down on the bed, but couldn’t help but continue to listen. The walls of the lodge were very thin.

He heard Jean pour her drink into a glass. She wasn’t wasting any time. I’m worried about Elliott, she said, after a brief pause. He’s been even quieter since he got back from Uni. He looks so lost.

I know, but it was just his first year. The next may go better. It’s only to be expected, in the circumstances, Mike replied.

Elliott didn’t want to hear his inadequacies dissected by his parents, but he also didn’t want to leave the bland security of his bedroom. He could imagine his father’s fingers spreading across either side of his ample belly, a common pose whilst he was thinking.

Do you notice that we never get any details? Jean said.

You’re right; he says he’s made friends, but I don’t know a single name. I’ve no idea what to expect from his exams. Perhaps we need to be a little more insistent?

Jean spluttered, as some of her beer went down the wrong way. She really must be drinking fast, Elliott thought. He listened to the hollow thuds between coughs, as his father slapped her supportively, if rather firmly, across the back.

Maybe - or it could be he just needs to relax, Jean answered, in a high, strained voice. I know the journey didn’t go to plan, but this week could still be just what our family needs.

Feel that?" Mike asked.

What?

The sun’s shining on us. And it looks like we’re in just the right spot to catch it. Perfect! I’m going to get the camera.

Elliott listened as his father rummaged around, back inside the building. He knew it likely that he wouldn’t find his camera, and that his mother would get the blame. Elliott sighed and left his room. He went outside, ready to provide moral support, but was not immediately noticed.

Jean pushed her slim frame upright and hopped down the steps of the veranda deck onto a small pebble beach. Elliott was struck by how youthful her movements appeared now she was a part of the natural world. It made him more aware of her burden. His mother took in a long draught of fresh air, then looked upwards and blinked as the warm rays caressed her face. The hollows in her pinched cheeks and the tiny double lines etched into either side of her thin mouth began to relax. She turned her narrow back on Elliott and looked out across the lake. The sudden change of weather was drawing out a flotilla of pleasure boats,