done with it. I threw the book onto the coals. It would not catch at first. But then, quite suddenly, it burst into flame, all at once, as though soaked in petrol. Within a matter of minutes, it had been quite consumed. I poked the ashes, breaking and scattering them. Some drifted up the chimney, flimsy white tissues lighter than smoke, others fell among the coals and were lost. I felt a great weight fall from me.
That night, I was kept awake by a constant scratching sound behind the wainscoting, as though rats or mice were scuttling in the walls.
SIX
It took me some days to recover from the incident. The sight of old Jurczyk, whom I had previously known only as a kind-hearted and affable man, shouting at me, telling me never to return, had been deeply upsetting.
I resumed work, but with a heavier heart than I had hoped. As the days passed and I put the incident at the Fraternity library behind me, my thoughts grew less perturbed. The scuttling sounds did not return the second night, nor any night after. The landlord must have put down rat poison, I thought. The shadows I had felt creeping up on me again had all but dispersed. From time to time, in the grey weather, I would feel uneasy walking past a dark opening or as I caught a sight of something moving against a window late at night. But, for the most part, I kept to crowded streets and strayed as little as possible beyond the reach of streetlights.
My research was hampered by my contretemps with Jurczyk. Such was the close-knittedness of the occult network in Edinburgh, I felt sure that word had by now gone round that little world to the effect that I was a thief or worse. I stuck with the more mainstream groups, people less likely to be in touch with the Fraternity of the Old Path, or its members. But I soon grew frustrated, knowing that the richest information would come, not from people like these, but from the true adepts, those most deeply devoted to the magical arts. I thought now and then of contacting Jurczyk again, possibly by letter, in order to explain myself; but each time I put it off until it began to seem too late to retrieve the situation.
I had almost resigned myself to carrying out a less wide-ranging research programme than I had originally envisaged, when matters took another unexpected turn. It was the middle of January, and I was in a pub in Bank Street. Ramsey McLean had asked me to join him for a drink. The invitation had been phrased quite casually – ‘a wee drink and a chance to catch up on news of Stornoway’; but I knew it was really to give him an opportunity to check up on my state of health. I knew that Iain was due to finish his classes later, and I was expecting him to join us when he was ready.
McLean brought two fine malt whiskies to the table, and we sat and talked like old times. He knew almost everyone in Stornoway, and had endless questions to ask about this or that household, about the children and grandchildren of neighbours.
When an hour or so had passed, the doctor finished his third whisky and set the empty glass on the table.
‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘Evening surgery starts in half an hour. Andrew, you’re greatly improved. Keep taking the herbal drink. When the bottle’s empty, pop into the surgery for a new one. I’ll give you a once-over. By the looks of you, you’ll be on top form by the spring.’
I said I would stay on to wait for Iain. McLean shook hands and left, and I went to the bar for a soft drink. I had barely returned to my table when a man sat down next to me.
‘Andrew Macleod,’ he said. ‘Where on earth have you been hiding?’
I turned awkwardly, almost spilling my drink. For a moment I did not recognize him, for his face was not one I associated with the place or the time of day. His name was Duncan Mylne, an advocate, like half the other customers in the pub. We were near the Law Courts here.
He and I had met a few times at meetings of the Fraternity of the Old Path, of which he
That night, I was kept awake by a constant scratching sound behind the wainscoting, as though rats or mice were scuttling in the walls.
SIX
It took me some days to recover from the incident. The sight of old Jurczyk, whom I had previously known only as a kind-hearted and affable man, shouting at me, telling me never to return, had been deeply upsetting.
I resumed work, but with a heavier heart than I had hoped. As the days passed and I put the incident at the Fraternity library behind me, my thoughts grew less perturbed. The scuttling sounds did not return the second night, nor any night after. The landlord must have put down rat poison, I thought. The shadows I had felt creeping up on me again had all but dispersed. From time to time, in the grey weather, I would feel uneasy walking past a dark opening or as I caught a sight of something moving against a window late at night. But, for the most part, I kept to crowded streets and strayed as little as possible beyond the reach of streetlights.
My research was hampered by my contretemps with Jurczyk. Such was the close-knittedness of the occult network in Edinburgh, I felt sure that word had by now gone round that little world to the effect that I was a thief or worse. I stuck with the more mainstream groups, people less likely to be in touch with the Fraternity of the Old Path, or its members. But I soon grew frustrated, knowing that the richest information would come, not from people like these, but from the true adepts, those most deeply devoted to the magical arts. I thought now and then of contacting Jurczyk again, possibly by letter, in order to explain myself; but each time I put it off until it began to seem too late to retrieve the situation.
I had almost resigned myself to carrying out a less wide-ranging research programme than I had originally envisaged, when matters took another unexpected turn. It was the middle of January, and I was in a pub in Bank Street. Ramsey McLean had asked me to join him for a drink. The invitation had been phrased quite casually – ‘a wee drink and a chance to catch up on news of Stornoway’; but I knew it was really to give him an opportunity to check up on my state of health. I knew that Iain was due to finish his classes later, and I was expecting him to join us when he was ready.
McLean brought two fine malt whiskies to the table, and we sat and talked like old times. He knew almost everyone in Stornoway, and had endless questions to ask about this or that household, about the children and grandchildren of neighbours.
When an hour or so had passed, the doctor finished his third whisky and set the empty glass on the table.
‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘Evening surgery starts in half an hour. Andrew, you’re greatly improved. Keep taking the herbal drink. When the bottle’s empty, pop into the surgery for a new one. I’ll give you a once-over. By the looks of you, you’ll be on top form by the spring.’
I said I would stay on to wait for Iain. McLean shook hands and left, and I went to the bar for a soft drink. I had barely returned to my table when a man sat down next to me.
‘Andrew Macleod,’ he said. ‘Where on earth have you been hiding?’
I turned awkwardly, almost spilling my drink. For a moment I did not recognize him, for his face was not one I associated with the place or the time of day. His name was Duncan Mylne, an advocate, like half the other customers in the pub. We were near the Law Courts here.
He and I had met a few times at meetings of the Fraternity of the Old Path, of which he
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