we’re now bound; the court has shifted from Holyrood to Stirling castle, where her majesty plans to remain until her baby is born.”
I’m dreaming. Delirious. There can be no other explanation. “You’ve been to see… Queen Elizabeth the first? In London?”
“In Chester. I think I told you that yesterday. The first, you say? There are other Queen Besses then?”
“Yes. No. Oh, Christ, this can’t be true. You’re having some sort of sick joke with me.”
“Why would we do that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t understand anything about this, about you. I, I want to get dressed. Now. Please.”
Will passes me my clothes and I grab them from him. Belatedly I realise they might take issue with my manners, and I know full well what that could mean. Even so, I stand and manage to ignore my nakedness as I drop the plaids to the earth floor of the hut. I pull my underwear back on, wincing as my pants scrape across my tender buttocks. My knickers are followed by my base layers, then my trousers and fleece. I pick up my jacket and thrust my hands in the sleeves as I head for the door.
“I need some fresh air.” Not a lie exactly. The smoke from the fire is escaping through a hole in the roof, but still the accumulation within the confined space is starting to choke me. I burst from the open doorway and gulp in sweet mountain air. I start off up the hillside, not running away exactly, that would be futile. I just need to put some space between myself and—whatever is happening here. I sprint for several hundred yards until, breathless, I drop panting to my knees.
A couple of minutes pass before the two men’s voices reach me. I turn to see them strolling up the hill, leading their horses. The plaids and blanket are safely stowed again. They are clearly ready to continue our journey. I stand and face them.
The small hut and oak tree are sharply defined against the hillside below me, and I am struck by the familiarity of the sight. Déja vu? Possibly? Definitely. I have seen this before, this scene. Not the deluded Scotsmen, obviously, but the rest. The animal shelter, the tree, the shape of the hills on the other side of the valley.
I saw it, just yesterday. But then it was… different. The same, but not the same. The hut was in ruins, the tree much bigger, and dead. But it is the same. It is the same place.
I look across the valley, screwing up my eyes as I attempt to pick out the familiar road cutting through the Kirkstone Pass, or even the inn itself. I can see a small building in more or less the correct location for the pub, but no sign of the road, nothing but undisturbed heather. I lower my gaze to the dip between the two hills where I can pick out the farmstead, the same buildings I looked at just a day ago, or some of them. The large corrugated iron barn is no longer there, and the buildings I see now are just low, single-story structures.
And where are the wind turbines? The graceful, majestic sweep of their blades should be clearly visible on the skyline. They are not there, nothing. I scan the landscape, desperate now, my brain racing, searching for some familiar landmark to prove I’m not mad. It’s as though I’m playing some weird game of spot the difference, looking at the same picture but with details changed. The walls, the drystone ribbons that should be crisscrossing the moors are gone. There are no sheep, no cars on the now non-existent road.
Horrified, confused, scared of something I can’t even start to fathom, I run back down the hill toward the two men. They may be part of all this, but they do at least seem solid, and believable.
Will opens his arms and I rush into the comfort he offers without thinking. He hugs me to him, managing to wince only slightly as I wrap my arms around his injured torso.
“Lass, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” He sounds concerned, but that is nothing compared to the horror I am experiencing.
“Where are they? The turbines? What did
I’m dreaming. Delirious. There can be no other explanation. “You’ve been to see… Queen Elizabeth the first? In London?”
“In Chester. I think I told you that yesterday. The first, you say? There are other Queen Besses then?”
“Yes. No. Oh, Christ, this can’t be true. You’re having some sort of sick joke with me.”
“Why would we do that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t understand anything about this, about you. I, I want to get dressed. Now. Please.”
Will passes me my clothes and I grab them from him. Belatedly I realise they might take issue with my manners, and I know full well what that could mean. Even so, I stand and manage to ignore my nakedness as I drop the plaids to the earth floor of the hut. I pull my underwear back on, wincing as my pants scrape across my tender buttocks. My knickers are followed by my base layers, then my trousers and fleece. I pick up my jacket and thrust my hands in the sleeves as I head for the door.
“I need some fresh air.” Not a lie exactly. The smoke from the fire is escaping through a hole in the roof, but still the accumulation within the confined space is starting to choke me. I burst from the open doorway and gulp in sweet mountain air. I start off up the hillside, not running away exactly, that would be futile. I just need to put some space between myself and—whatever is happening here. I sprint for several hundred yards until, breathless, I drop panting to my knees.
A couple of minutes pass before the two men’s voices reach me. I turn to see them strolling up the hill, leading their horses. The plaids and blanket are safely stowed again. They are clearly ready to continue our journey. I stand and face them.
The small hut and oak tree are sharply defined against the hillside below me, and I am struck by the familiarity of the sight. Déja vu? Possibly? Definitely. I have seen this before, this scene. Not the deluded Scotsmen, obviously, but the rest. The animal shelter, the tree, the shape of the hills on the other side of the valley.
I saw it, just yesterday. But then it was… different. The same, but not the same. The hut was in ruins, the tree much bigger, and dead. But it is the same. It is the same place.
I look across the valley, screwing up my eyes as I attempt to pick out the familiar road cutting through the Kirkstone Pass, or even the inn itself. I can see a small building in more or less the correct location for the pub, but no sign of the road, nothing but undisturbed heather. I lower my gaze to the dip between the two hills where I can pick out the farmstead, the same buildings I looked at just a day ago, or some of them. The large corrugated iron barn is no longer there, and the buildings I see now are just low, single-story structures.
And where are the wind turbines? The graceful, majestic sweep of their blades should be clearly visible on the skyline. They are not there, nothing. I scan the landscape, desperate now, my brain racing, searching for some familiar landmark to prove I’m not mad. It’s as though I’m playing some weird game of spot the difference, looking at the same picture but with details changed. The walls, the drystone ribbons that should be crisscrossing the moors are gone. There are no sheep, no cars on the now non-existent road.
Horrified, confused, scared of something I can’t even start to fathom, I run back down the hill toward the two men. They may be part of all this, but they do at least seem solid, and believable.
Will opens his arms and I rush into the comfort he offers without thinking. He hugs me to him, managing to wince only slightly as I wrap my arms around his injured torso.
“Lass, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” He sounds concerned, but that is nothing compared to the horror I am experiencing.
“Where are they? The turbines? What did
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