The Blizzard

STRANG woke to find the lodge empty. Sheonagh was gone but had left a hearty breakfast prepared. Swinging his legs off the cot, he made his way to the table, feeling the pathway next to the kitchen wall. Blindness was no obstacle. The small lodge had become his world. He knew every dusty corner.

  He knew, for instance, that an assortment of food been methodically arranged on the table. The salty aroma of cooked oats steamed into his nostrils, warm bread was cut into thick slices next to small pots of clear honey and soft, warm butter. To his right a jug of fresh milk was still foaming with cream.

  Feeling in front of the porridge he felt an earthenware bowl and lifted the covering to find four boiled eggs, still warm. To drink, he warmed himself with cupfuls of tea only slightly stewed from a battered steel canteen. After eating his fill, he felt strong enough to tour again the simple home; each wall was a stack of arced logs.

  There were no books, no trinkets, no personal objects that he could find. Just a simple cooking stove, a few clothes, the battered upholstered chair and the single framed sofa where he had slept less than an hour ago.

  On the nights when she was home, his hostess slept on the chair ignoring his offers to change places with her on the sofa. But she seemed to require little sleep and for most of his stay, Sheonagh had spent the evenings “roaming”, as he called it.

  Outside the chickens pecked idly at feed, rustling their feathers and announcing themselves with their poultry gargle.

  For the first few weeks, he had been ordered to remain indoors while the search continued. Sheonagh had been right about police returning. Although the Inspector was taken up with other matters, the sergeant and a colleague came back to conduct a more formal search of the small home and the outlying buildings.

  Once again, as if by some unknown instinct, Sheonagh had known the men were near before he had heard their footsteps. She had herded him into the snug beneath the floorboards of the lodge, and the hatch concealed with pungent animal furs.

  Days after the inspection, Sheonagh had returned one night to report that the hunt had moved and was now concentrated in the north east of the country, near Dornoch, where a man matching the priest-killer’s description had been seen.

  This announcement, puzzling though it was due to his hostess having little to do with the outside world, allowed Strang some breathing space. He could escape the stuffy confines of the lodge and explore the yard outside. The nearest farm was five miles away and Sheonagh’s lodge was well concealed by a copse of tall pine trees. The sound of the birds had at first engrossed him. He had never appreciated the alarm-like clarity of their songs. Without his sight, he could not stray too far; but it was a blessed relief to breathe fresh air free from odour of burnt wood and stale blood.

  In the evenings, and if Sheonagh did not come home from her hunting, Strang feasted on the cold victuals kept in tins on the shelf – or the cold sausage, biscuits, cheese, hunks of cold beef which were left for him. In his previous life, food had held no pleasure. It was a means to an end. The punishing schedule had meant little time for such things but the country air had awakened a ferocious appetite.

  In the hours when he was not sleeping or eating, he rested on the couch. Standing in certain parts of the room he could feel the sun through the windows. His capacity for sleep was a surprise. Sometimes, he dozed on and off for ten, twelve hours at a time. It was an ability he thought he had not possessed. But while his body recovered, his mind railed against inactivity and dwelt upon his misfortune. Without his eyesight, he could neither read nor write, not that his hostess had even one book in her humble home.

  As far as Strang could tell, she had no profession or trade, no friends, and no obvious means of income. Her sole occupation, whether it was for profit or pastime, was hunting the various wildlife in the forgotten hillside. During his first, exploratory tours of the lodge he had quickly turned up a pair of young rabbits, their torsos floppy and flexible like rubber. Later his hand brushed against the gallery of mounted heads which crowded the cabin wall. Vaguely, hopelessly he felt their lifeless features – an exercise both repulsive and frustrating to him as he tried to guess their species. The anglers clearly belonged to a stag, but the long snout and pricked ears of another trophy could surely not be a wolf? Were such things even native to this country? How she caught this menagerie was unknown for he could find no trace of gun or shot in the lodge.

  Even in company, Sheonagh remained an enigma to him. Unused to company, she did her best to accommodate her visitor but was uncomfortable with conversation, meeting questions she did not like with stony silence. Information was volunteered when she felt like speaking. Her speech consisted almost solely of statements of fact. She and was either unable or disinclined to ask questions or reciprocate to any of Strang’s own.

  After so many days of living under her roof, he was no wiser about her moods or character than when he was three weeks ago. Not that he had any right to complain about her taciturn nature. His wife had insisted for long enough, that he had almost been blind to others’ feelings.

  Fortunately his new companion was no great conversationalist. During their silent nights together, he felt a bond developing with his unresponsive new friend – their stunted social skills creating common ground. Stunned and bedraggled, he had for the first time in his life felt the need to unburden himself to the parish priest in the confessional. But there was no desire to explain himself to Sheonagh. In the silent comfort of the lodge, he felt no need to tell his story.

  One night, and quite out of character, Sheonagh suggested they visit the pub.

  “It’s a good walk to Strablane,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “It’s night time,” Strang had by now adjusted to the peculiar rhythms of his new life and the suggestion was wildly disturbing.

  “Won’t make any difference to you anyway,” the deep voice added.

  Her excursions, wherever it was they took her, led Sheonagh to believe police maintained little surveillance in the district and thus it might be safe for Strang to journey to the local village.

  “I suppose you haven’t got a carriage to hand,” Strang had assumed that his friend had no other means of transport, but asked hopefully anyway.”

  “Don’t believe in them,” was his friend’s response.

  “You don’t believe in carriages?”

  “Don’t think they are of any good. It’s unnatural to make the horses go where they don’t want to. Plus they take too much looking after. It’ll take us an hour by foot.”

  He wanted to pointed out that it wasn’t very kind to hunt and kill animals, but realised it wouldn’t alter the fact that he’d have to walk.

  A stout walking pole was pressed into his unexpecting grasp, as Sheonagh’s firm fingers took his other hand, guiding him from the porch, past the grumbling chickens and beyond the wire fences which marked the boundaries of her domain. For the first time, he left the confines of his trial period of blindness and entered a wider, uncontrolled environment.

  She did her best to guide him; clumsily pulling on his arm, jerking him as he veered off course. But several times, he found himself stumbling on the unknown surface. Was it flat up ahead? Were there any roots to watch out for? After a series of unhelpful grunts from Sheonagh, he began to rely on his own inexpert judgements about the gradients and smoothness of the track ahead. They progressed slowly and, for what seemed like an age, the path followed a steep incline.

  Strang’s weary shins ached as the balls of his feet connected firmly with each rising step. As they began to descend the crunch of snow on loose bark was replaced by a softer sound. After some time they stepped onto the tarmac.

  “Not far to go”, his companion grunted.

  The sudden feeling of open space and the smooth tarmac suddenly made Strang feel very exposed. He strained to hear the distant clatter or sneezing whiney of horses – anything that would alert them to the sound of a carriage. Sheona
gh’s horny-skinned hand was now lodged under his armpit. She walked two steps ahead, stopping to let him catch his breath. After a while the road began to descend.

  “Not far now. Just another half mile.”

  Inside The Scorraig, Sandy Duncan had just poured his first proper pint under the watchful eye of Joe. It was his first night behind the bar and his abortive earlier attempts – full of bitter froth - had already been dismissed by the regulars. For the fifth time, the weary Joe had shown the younger man how to hold the glass at a tilt with the tap just touching the edge of the rim before cranking the pump. Patrons watched in open amusement as the lad grew increasingly flustered under this tutelage and his battle to free the ale from its cask became more desperate.

  Eventually the young barman blushed in embarrassment as a cheer echoed through the small tavern. Sandy was no longer a glass collector. A half-nod was all he received from surly Joe. In the cheerful elation, few noticed the feral, dirty-looking woman who entered the inn. Her brown hair was streaked with grey and her dull clothes hung shapelessly off her bony frame. It was impossible to say her age – she wasn’t young but her burnished face was unmarked by any lines. Few locals would meet Wild Sheonagh’s gaze, all were secretly terrified. And she was given a wide berth by her immediate neighbours who lived on the far side of the woods next to her strange little cabin.

  Strange she was, yes, but also an important local asset.

  In an era where local delicacies were hard to come by, the huntswoman had an unerring ability to find the game that were so scarcely seen these days, along with The Gypsy, Woodtufts and other musthrooms. Residents who had an understanding with the wild woman would awake to find a rabbit, fish, perhaps some birds outside their door. No payment was ever given for but favours were unquestioningly returned on the rare occasion they were asked for.

  Anyone who wondered about her business never voiced their curiosity in her presence, as if aware of an unspoken threat. Occasionally a man would sometimes mutter to his friend, “Doesn’t like people much, that Sheonagh.”

  Regulars shot a few furtive glances as the bony figure made its way to a secluded table. Few gave much notice to her companion. It didn’t do to show much interest in other people’s business. Some might have noticed the wide-eyed stranger, his steel grey hair overgrown, walked with a stick in a clumsily as he hung from the woman’s arm.

  “My Jack,” Strang murmured as he sat. Although, he sighed the words to himself it elicited a rare question from his partner.

  “You have a son.”

  “Yes, he probably thinks I’m dead. Perhaps things will be better for him now. I’m sure he’ll be alright. We haven’t got on very well in the last few years since my wife died and… our relationship is complicated.”

  “What do you want?” Sheonagh snorted, shifting the subject without apology.

  “I don’t really mind.”

  “Well, it’s ale. There’s not much else.”

  He soaked up the roll of other people’s conversations. The voices both loud and quiet, low and high-pitched merged into a painted soundscape. Why could he still not see? The droppings should just have washed out. Would any hospital examine him without first demanding to see his bracelet he could not now produce?

  A sturdy glass was pressed against his hand and Sheonagh sat down. He took a sip; the beer was warm compared to the chill outside and slightly malty. It had been a long time since he had been in a pub.

  “So you’re someone important then?” Sheonagh broke the silence. “I hope this is not too boring for you. You must be used to banquets and castles.”

  “No, not really. I’d prefer to be here than in Edinburgh.”

  “You are right. I think you would be dead if you were in Edinburgh. Here you are not dead. That makes it better straight away.”

  “How much do you know about me Sheonagh, really? We’ve barely spoken since I’ve been staying with you. You clearly know that I’m in some sort of trouble but you’ve not explained why you’re still helping me.”

  “You were dying when I found you. It was very little effort to bring you to the warmth. If it had been too difficult or dangerous for me, I would have let you die.”

  “You’d probably be arrested or worse if anyone found out. The last person - the priest - just look what happened to him.”

  Sheonagh snorted and Strang could hear her take a long draught of her drink.

  “I can always tell when there’s a game,” it was her word for hunt, he realised. “I knew from the moment I found you in the snow. I could have left you to die; I turned my back ready to walk, but then something… I felt you deserved a chance.”

  “These men, they aren’t hunters. They are soldiers, spies; all of them are dangerous and won’t stop until they find me.”

  “They are not so different to you. You are being hunted by your own kind.”

  “But the priest-”

  “There is nothing anyone can do to me,” the words were final and clear, declaring the strand of conversation at an end. “Now drink your pint.”

  Unhappily, Strang slurped at the glass, ingesting a mouthful of creamy foam from the top. The clamour was making more sense; the barman was new and undergoing a lively initiation from the regular drinkers.

  Sheonagh spoke again. Again it was simply a statement: “You are the man who made the water.”

  So she did know who he really was.

  “It’s electricity from the water,” he corrected her automatically, “and I don’t make it, but yes that’s what I do – or what I did.”

  It seemed as though he would have to tell his story after all to this strange woman, just as he had done the priest.

  “It was me and my… friend really. We started the research in the tens, about ten years before the first big crash crash. The reserves of blackwater and other fuels were dwindling but there weren’t any protests back then, no new religions.”

  The words cascaded out of him. He was anxious for a chance to finally describe his work, to lose himself in the emotionless world of science.

  “Of course, you probably know that water is made up of two things - oxygen and hydrogen. Both are among the most abundant elements in the planet but highly reactive, rarely found on their own. But them together in their raw state and –” he clapped his hands together expressively.

  “I never was one for schoolwork,” his companion’s glass was nearly empty.

  “This is basic science, which everyone should know. Oxygen explodes in our bodies, in your body, in the bodies of all animals, firing our cells, giving them energy. It keeps fire burning. It reacts – or at least used to – with blackwater to create a series of explosions that would power an engine. Hydrogen also explodes in the right conditions as any historian of air travel will tell you. Put them together and –” he clapped his hands a second time, but louder.

  “And you put them together. Simple as that.”

  “Everyone was looking at things the wrong way. Things like windmills – turbines – which have been around for centuries. Mankind needed a new form of energy. Water hydrogen fusion could make power from the most abundant compound on the planet with no harmful by-products whatsoever. Generators could be built quickly and cheaply. It was almost a perfect solution”

  Sheonagh sniffed unimpressed. “Do you want another?” Realising his glass was now empty, Strang accepted and after a few minutes alone a fresh drink was placed in front of him.

  “I do not believe you or anyone else is capable of doing anything perfectly. If anything is perfect it is a fire. All the compounds you need are around us. You just have to pick wood for the ground. No need for your generators.”

  “Nonsense,” says Strang, “surely it is better to have a reaction where there is nothing wasted. An equation where everything balances. With hydro power there is no radiation, no carbon, no smoke.”

  “But things balances out here too. When you chop down a tree
, it grows back again.”

  There was a long pause. Sheonagh drained her glass.

  “What do you think about death?” she said bluntly. “A man of your intellect must have some interesting views on this topic?”

  “My views aren’t particularly novel. I think when you die, all brain activity ceases and that’s it.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “How could there be?”

  “So, not particularly religious then?”

  “I don’t have strong views. I’m happy to let people have their beliefs if it comforts them, if it doesn’t disturb me. But it’s really just a primitive instinct.”

  “You’ve not going to join these water boys then? You could probably be their leader or something.”

  Strang shuddered at the men and women on Princess Street, shaking and howling in the rain.

  “The old religions at least have a history and some dignity,” he said defensively. “Those idiots are simply trying to justify their drug abuse with pagan mumbo-jumbo. During times of uncertainty such as we’ve been through, stupid ideas can gain a foothold. I’m surprised you’ve even heard of them.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” she said mockingly. “We little villagers have heard of tales of the big city. Even if everyone here is half-alive.”

  “You don’t seem to like people much.”

  “No.”

  “And don’t the others in the village…?”

  “What you mean is ‘Don’t you yokels believe in groupthink?’ Yes, they do. Even though they are in the countryside, men seek comfort in the same views. They huddle together like sheep around the same small stock of opinions.”

  “And you’re happy to be an outcast.”

  “I’m different.”

  But to be different was a taboo, Strang thought. People now clung to what was comfortable and familiar, the same conventions, even the same way of dressing, wherever they could. He looked around the pub at the smiling customers in all their gaiety. Their clothes, shoes, even expressions, had the same unconscious uniformity, as if they had been compelled by a force they didn’t fully recognise or understand.

  “You aren’t afraid that people will turn against you?”

  “To share is to want, to follow is to be…” she began the familiar chant, her deep voice heavy with irony.

  “You know as well as I do where it comes from. The food riots, what happened in England, the common values was the only way to stop violence. It’s a miracle so many people bought into it.”

  “Aye, right down to wearing the same underwear.”

  “It was only ever supposed to be an emergency measure. We’re in a period of stability now. I’m not saying it was a good thing.”

  “Yes, you are. But the problem is that you’re the outcast now, same as me.”

  Sandy was mopping up the mess from his shoddy pouring, when he looked over at the table. A tower of foam specked glasses a testament to Sheonagh’s prodigious thirst. If her companion had looked lost and unsteady before entering the pub he now appeared, if anything, more sober and confident in his movements.

  “Is there anything you do like?” he heard the man ask

  “Hunting. Drinking, as well, sometimes. That’s about it.”

  “What about love?”

  “A few men tried once or twice. They won’t be trying again. Do you want another?”

  “No, my glass is still full.”

  “Well I’m having another.”

  The lubrication of drink worked wonders with self-assurance. Outside Strang barely felt the icy lacerations of the wind. There was an inner fire burning inside.

  “I am still alive,” he said to himself. “If the company’s butlers were going to find me, they would have done so by now.”

  Having given this fullest account of himself to Sheonagh, he felt he could say anything without fear of judgement. And yet his disclosure was still to be reciprocated. Sheonagh was keeping something back. It would come later, but not here and not now.

  The route out of the village was not as arduous – ever though he received fewer directions from Sheonagh, who now lumbered beside him.

  The path which would take them to the cabin was up ahead. As they turned off the roadside through the trees, Strang heard the faintest crunch of icy gravel under his feet and the chill caress of frost-caked branches.

  Despite her heroic consumption, the hunched figure of Sheonagh continued heavily but without fatigue. Neither of them spoke, although she hummed a tune to herself, low and beneath her breath. The drift was deep. Fresh snow had fallen in the hours they had spent inside.

  Without warning, Sheonagh’s grip tightened and she slipped away, causing Strang to crash to the side, his legs moving involuntarily. Trying to protest, his mouth was filled with snow. The hand returned was tight above his elbow. A voice rasped in his ear: “Hush!”

  The fall of feet moving away from him. For several long moments he lay stunned. There was nothing but the seeping damp numbing his face and hands. Should he stay here? Then a man’s voice floated in the distance. The words were indistinct but carried by the wind, the precise, clipped military tone was clear – it was an order being issued. He strained to hear other sounds. Footsteps, running perhaps a hundred metres to his right.

  All of a sudden silence.

  Then there was a yell – a man in agony. More footsteps and shouting – this time about a hundred yards ahead. Orders were being barked – he could make out two or three separate voices. There was an inhuman sound, like an earthquake – low and grumbling as if an airship motor had just started. More voices yelled, one was cut short in a high-ended scream, then another.

  Strang barely noticed the melting snow soaking into his clothes. His breathing was shallow, his chest felt tight, he could hear the blood pumping in his ears. The light-headed sensation he had felt from his drink session was evaporated. In its place was raw and primitive terror.

  The Butlers. They were closing in. Perhaps among them, the man who had warned him, who had taunted him with the messages over the vacuum tube.

  He tried to imagine his final moment – it was only a few seconds away. Would he be tortured to death as his correspondent had suggested. He tried to block out images of his skin being stripped. No, if he was to die, let it be quickly. Not like that.

  Footsteps drew closer. Soon they would see his prone body in the fresh snow.

  Sheonagh, brave, stubborn woman, was dead but had put up a surprisingly good fight. Why she had given up her life was still uncertain yet it was clear she possessed a bravery that he could only marvel at.

  Then a voice spoke. It was deep and sonorous. Strang could feel the emptiness in his own lungs, as he held his breath. It did not seem that the human body could produce such a sound. But he had heard and understood the words, as muffled and fuzzy as they were.

  “We must go.”

  Strang trembled. His legs jerked and he faintly struggled to rise to his feet.

  For the second time in weeks, he had readied himself for death in this land of snow and darkness. She was beside him now. He left his arm drop on top to her back, resting his weight for support. Faint fingers grasped her shoulder. It was wet with blood.