His left hand gripped a scepter cut from a length of knotty white pine with a carved peryton perched on its tip, and there was a sword with a peryton at its hilt in his right hand. The vision wore a crown of twisted antlers, a fur cloak draped from iron clasps at his shoulders. The druid’s robes were white with a silver helix embroidered on the breast. He hurriedly lit his oil lamp and held it above his head as the figure morphed from a ghostly presence to a fully fleshed man dressed in a brocade robe with a thick collar plate woven in shimmering golden threads-a druid, magnificent and majestic. A shadowy figure had stepped out from the corner next to his wardrobe.
Reaching for the pitcher of water next to his bed, Duncan poured himself a glass, then promptly spilled it onto the floor. A gust of wind from Largs Bay swept open the curtains, carrying with it the smell of the seaside-salty kippers, crushed shells, briny sand. One week ago, he had sat up in bed, drenched in sweat, a vague feeling of dread raising the hair on the back of his neck. He had experienced such dreams before, but never so dramatically. The first time he had seen the strange figure, Duncan thought what he was seeing was a lucid dream: a state where he had a solid awareness of his surroundings while he slept. He wondered if the recent hauntings he had been experiencing were a consequence of their visit. With his hands deep in the pockets of his tweed field jacket, he was thinking about the visitors he had recently received: Sandie Calder and her children, Emily and Matt.
He was waiting for his canvas to dry, but his mind was elsewhere. Duncan Fox stood on the craggy hillside of Era Mina, squinting against the late-summer sun that drenched the Isles of Bute and Arran in a golden light.
0 kommentar(er)
