Staring blankly at the wall, Michael dropped the phone onto the side cabinet. It landed with a
clatter and sat awkwardly in its charger, its red recharge light dithering on and off, not quite sure
which way to go. A thousand thoughts went through Michael"s mind, what did he mean, ‘in
ruins’? I am standing in Kirkfale. He knew, of course, there was only one way to prove his
father was wrong – research. He turned and retreated back to the comfortable chair his wife
had left him in some time ago and pulled out his laptop from its carry-bag next to the chair,
switched it on and waited for it to boot up. Perhaps he mistook Kirkfale for somewhere else.
Yes, that is it, a big misunderstanding.
He typed in the search parameters and pressed enter, within seconds there was a list of
links to various websites and a quick check at the top of the page confirmed well over 13 million
hits in total. He was half in his mind to call his father back and tell him to search for Kirkfale and
see for himself, but something caught his eye. Under the sponsored sites list he read:
Centenary Celebrations, Kirkfale
Tour the site of the largest
Massacre in Scottish history
He clicked the link and another window opened revealing a company from Aberdeen who
specialised in Scottish tours with a difference. He scanned the page and identified many of the
tours to be based on ancient burial sites around Scotland, all the major cities were included for
their ghost walks and several of the Scottish castles and stately homes were listed as
alternative party venues. It did not take him long to find what he was looking for, Kirkfale, 1910.
He clicked the link and was taken to another page detailing the massacre of Kirkfale in 1910.
“As the story goes,” he read, “it is believed that a stranger from the South visited the largely
unknown village of Kirkfale in 1908 and during the two years following got to know every last
villager, all except one who fled from the village in 1910. Not much is known from that point on,
but rumours that are rife all around Scotland, depict the stranger wielding a sword and
slaughtering the entire village populace; men, women and children. It is not known what
happened to this stranger or why the village suddenly erupted in fire and burned to the ground,
but many scholars and researchers alike pertain this story to the old Scottish folklore of Black
Donald.” The cursor hovered over „Black Donald" and it changed to a link. His enthusiasm
urged him to click the mouse button. He did and was taken to another page, this time the title
read:
Scottish Legends and Folklore
He continued reading, “Black Donald is an ancient folklore believed to originate in the early
part of the 12th century. The story tells of a figure dressed in black who went around Scotland
learning the trades of every man in order to become master of them all. The story describes
Black Donald as having the ability to take on many different forms to get into the hearts of the
Scottish people and learn their skills before taking them as part of his own. There is one
version where this black figure failed to learn the skill of basting, making it hard for him to walk
the vast Scottish Countryside. Another version depicts Black Donald as an ancient warrior who
was tortured by the English King and forced to kill Scottish men, women and children against
his will. However, it is widely believed that Black Donald"s ghost haunts villagers across the
length and breadth of Scotland causing unexplained deaths. Indeed, over the centuries, there
have been many sightings of a figure dressed in a black robe that trails to the ground. The most
famous sighting was Ki…”
The phone rang. Ah that will be Dad, phoning to apologise. He stood and walked over to
the phone and read the caller ID; it was a Kirkfale code, but he did not recognise the number.
Not Dad then, unless he has travelled all the way up here to argue some more, not likely
though, “Hello?”
“Michael, ye better get down here,” said a frantic female voice.
“Who is this?” Visions of practical jokes flooded his mind.
“Maggie MacGilley, yer wife"s shop is on fire.” He could sense the urgency in her voice and
concluded she was telling the truth.
“Is Mary ok?”
“I dinna ken, Son, oh lord it"s awful, ye gotta get down here.” The phone went dead.
“Maggie? Hello Maggie?” He threw the phone down and shot for the door, grabbing his coat
on the way. A pain shot up through his leg, but he ignored it, he had to; Mary was in trouble.
***
The smouldering carcass that was once Mary’s Shoes still gave off a surprising amount of heat.
Michael could not help but sweat even from his sitting position on the other side of the road. As
the smoke stung his nostrils and tears welled up in his eyes, Mrs. Deary approached Michael
and sat down beside him offering a tissue. He reluctantly took it and immediately felt
embarrassed, “the smoke got into my eyes.”
“Sure, Dear, I understand.” She patted him on the shoulder as he blew his nose making a
sound like a trumpet.
His wife, the woman he loved, was possibly lying dead in a burnt out building and there was
absolutely nothing he could do except wait and that infuriated him. Every so often, despite his
despair, he wiped his face with his soggy sleeve to get the stinging sweat and tear mix out of his
eyes.
The fire had already been extinguished and the walls revealed evidence of a burning with
scorch marks surrounding the windows and door way. The shell of the building reminded
Michael of an old picture from a history book about the blitz that he had taught so many times.
He never for once believed he would ever see such a building first hand, but now...
He took his eyes off the smoking wreck for a moment and surveyed the villagers standing on
the street watching the fire brigade finish their duties. Many of them had restrained him when
he arrived, to stop him entering the burning building. He returned his gaze back to the
commotion and sat up as several firemen left the building and stood in front of their senior
officer to report what they had found. Although Michael could not hear what they were saying,
he could tell it was not good news from the shaking of heads and the periodic looks toward him.
This, in some way gave him hope, perhaps she is not dead. Perhaps she never made it to the
shop or had popped out for an errand or something. “She can"t be dead, she just can"t be!” He
stamped his foot. “Why won"t they tell me anything?”
He looked back at the villagers, some of the older women held their hands to their mouths
aghast, as their husbands held their shoulders. It was clear this village was a close-knit
community, who all cared for each other, but there was something not right. Something that did
not sit all too well with Michael, before he could think further, he was interrupted, “Here Son, I"ve
made ye a cup o" tea, extra sweet. It"s good for the shock, ye ken.” Michael turned to see Mrs.
Doherty hold a tray with a teapot, one cup and a plate of chocolate biscuits. He did not fancy
eating at the moment, but the tea did sound a good idea. He nodded, took the tray, placed it
next to him on the path and poured himself a drink, before turning back to the rubble with a cup
in his hand and the thoughts of something strange, a distant memory.
Just like in the many movies that Michael had taken Mary to watch when they had been
courting, the next few seconds as a fireman approached from the wreckage, seemed to
Michael, to take place in slow motion. He was looking directly at Michael. He knew what that
meant. His fingers became rigid and the cup slid from his hand and smashed on the road
between his feet, hot tea splashing all over Michael"s shoes, but that was the last thing on his
mind. He scrambled up to his feet and wanted to meet the fireman halfway, but he could not
move from his spot. “Mr. Cameron,” the officer began removing his helmet, “the firemen have
discovered the remains of someone and by the dimensions it looks like a woman, now” he
quickly said to prevent Michael jumping to any premature conclusion, “this does not
automatically mean that it is the remains of your wife, but the likelihood is…” Michael just stared
at the officer as if his world had just been flushed down a toilet, “Sir, I am terribly sorry.”
“Do you know what started the fire?” Michael mouthed without any conviction. His eyes fell
on the smoking building and the body that was being bagged up by the firemen.
“It"s too early to say at the moment, but we can definitely say it started in the back, near the
back entrance. We will need a forensics team to come in and confirm the location and the
cause; you will receive a full report when one is completed.” The fire officer looked back at the
shell of the building and then back to Michael, “I suggest you go home and rest, call family,
friends, anybody who can come and support you at this time.” He patted Michael on the
shoulder and returned to the building and his work.
***
From the far side of the street, just behind the parked ambulances and fire engines, a lone
figure dressed in a uniform looked on as the proceedings unfolded. He should have got
involved given his perceived position, but chose to stay clear for the time being. It was not yet
time for him to start, but that time, he knew, was not far off. He checked his old-fashioned
watch that hung from a chain attached to the inside pocket of his tunic, and nodded, “Now it
begins.”
