The Curse

fiction

Castle Stalker, Scotland

The island rose, accusingly, from the middle of the loch, and on the shoreline a boat had been conveniently moored, oars impatiently awaiting hands to pull them, the message clear. Come.

A campervan hurtled through the woods. Deirdre Macleod was at the wheel with her husband Burt draped in the passenger seat. Burt was sick. Face green, eyes spinning. He’d hardly said a word the entire journey except, ‘the map, Deirdre! Where’s the map?’

‘What map? There’s clutter everywhere,’ she said, scrabbling in the glove box. ‘I can’t find any map!’

They had ventured off the main road an hour ago, on Burt’s instruction.

He had assured Deirdre that the dirt track they were on would arrive at a body of water called Loch Inward. It was here that Wilmur would be waiting.

The one thing about Burt was you trusted what he said, the guy had barely touched a drink in nearly thirty years of marriage. He was handsome too. So young looking.

They emerged through a gap in the trees to a scrap of silver shoreline, screeching to a halt. Deirdre dragged Burt out of the van and onto the rocky beach. As the last rays of sunlight glanced over the loch, Burt raised a bloodshot eye towards the horizon. There it was — the outline of an island in the gloom, castle turrets rising above a strange and heavy mist.

‘There,’ he spluttered, ‘Loch Inward Castle. The island of…d …m’

It sounded like … ‘damned’.

Admittedly that didn’t sound good. But Deirdre was more concerned about how they were going to get across the loch.

‘You call that a boat?’ The flimsy, waterlogged vessel had the inscription Wilmur along its flaky stern. The oars looked as brittle as bones.

‘Hurry Deirdre. The light fades.’

There was no time for questions. Burt had to be carried. He was sinking in and out of consciousness.

‘Wait,’ he said, during a brief moment of clarity, ‘the van, go to the glove compartment. You’ll find a leather satchel. The map is inside. And grab a torch. Run!’

‘I’m worried we’re not going to make it, Burtie.’

‘We have to.’

Out on the water, as darkness fell, Deirdre did her best to navigate to the island. The torch was useless — instinct prevailed. Burt seemed to rejuvenate as they got further from the shoreline. He fumbled the map from the satchel and studied it.

‘We must reach the whisky cellar’, he said, ‘in the castle’s crypt.’

Deirdre stopped rowing. ‘It’s always cellars and crypts with you, B. Can’t we go on a romantic minibreak for once? With a spa!?’

Burt looked perplexed, then threw up over the side of the hull.

‘And they say romance is dead,’ muttered Deirdre.

It was getting difficult to see. Thick fog encircled the island. When they hit land, the Wilmur scraped along the bottom of the loch, ripping a hole too big to ignore. They stumbled arm in arm onto the beach, collapsing in a crumpled heap watching the little boat fill with water.

‘The boat! It’s useless now. We’ll never get back.’

‘We may not come back, Deirdre. Put the torch on. Let’s go.’

Burt Macleod had been a collector his entire adult life. Totems, trinkets, maps — all kinds of ‘clutter’ as Deirdre called it. But most of all he collected experiences. He’d dragged Deirdre half way round the world looking for what? Answers? They had scaled the Pyramids of Giza. Crawled through the caves at Lascaux. Their passports had stamps from Bolivia, Mexico, Kazakhstan, The Congo — you name it. Always searching, always living out of a trailer. And now they were here in this chilly corner of Scotland.

Deirdre noticed shadows creeping up the castle walls ahead.

Burt was turning blue. The last time he was sick like this was three years ago, in Egypt, but this time something was really wrong. There was a nihilistic tone in his voice that Deirdre hadn’t registered before.

A starry sky revealed itself as the fog began to lift. ‘Look, Burt,’ she said, as they lurched towards the castle entrance, ‘we all have demons. I mean you know I can’t resist a drink. But this endless quest? You’ve got to tell me what’s going on. We both remember Cairo. And three years before that, in France? It’s happening again!’

Suddenly they bumped into something warm and alive.

‘Argh! What’s that?’

‘A cow Deirdre, just a Highland cow. A small herd resides on this island. I should have told you — I’ve been here before. Many moons ago. Come. Across this bridge.’ The cow shuffled into the night.

As they walked over the bridge it began to collapse behind them. Deirdre let out a piercing shriek. They scrambled to safety by the castle gate.

Burt continued, breathlessly. ‘First of all Deirdre, the thing is, what I am about to say is going to sound crazy, but you have to believe it. There is an ancient hex on me. They call it The Curse. It is a powerful curse. It makes me immortal. I will live forever. However — I must remain teetotal. Well, nearly. I must take a drink every three years or my immortality ends, I get sick, and I die.’

‘That really does sound crazy Burt… but your face tells me I need to believe you.’

In a calm voice, he continued: ‘The hex was put on me by the one they call Wilmur, although he goes by many names. Scotland is where I have traced his curse, back here to Loch Inward Castle, on the Isle of Dram. I have searched for Wilmur all over the world — I’m sorry, I should have let you know more — the pyramids of Egypt, his hideout in Panama, even his Arctic temple. But his secret has always eluded me — until now. It was here to The Isle of Dram, after painstaking research, that I realised he had returned, to the place of his ancestors. The method by which he gave me The Curse I have also pieced together. Many years ago I came here on my stag party and drank from an illicit whisky still, containing a golden liquor called Wilmur’s Revenge.’

‘It was the week before the wedding, Burtie. I still remember your headache.’

‘Indeed. I couldn’t remember a thing. This was cask strength whisky of the most devilish kind. It’s depth and flavour unmatched. Once consumed, only another dram of this fateful liquor can undo Wilmur’s curse. Legend has it that The Curse will only end by correctly identifying Wilmur’s Revenge in a blind tasting of Wilmur’s demonic design. You see this map in my hands? This is a series of tasting notes that will reveal the true flavour of Wilmur’s Revenge and finish this once and for all.’

They approached the cellar.

A low voice growled. ‘Who goes there?’

‘I have returned for you Wilmur, spectral being of the night’ said Burt, shivering, ‘this has gone on too long.’

The door creaked open.

The castle cellar was a cavernous whisky distillery and bar, the floor scattered with bottles and debris. Some antiquated furnishings gave it a certain character. Wilmur himself was hard to make out. When he emerged he was carrying a tray of ornate whisky quaichs.

Burt slammed his fist down on the bar.

‘Bar’s closed,’ said Wilmur.

‘Release me from this curse.’

‘You wish to be released from The Curse? Ha, no mortal man has ever correctly identified the taste of Wilmur’s Revenge in a blind taste test. Go ahead, make your choice.’

Burt propped himself on a stool. Deirdre joined him. ‘I accept your fiendish challenge Wilmur. Deirdre, pass me the tasting notes.’

As Deirdre looked on, Wilmur poured one whisky after another and Burt slugged them back.

‘No no, none of these are Wilmur’s Revenge!’

He swirled each whisky, took a sniff and studied the notes.

Wilmur’s Revenge: honeycomb, dry seaweed, salty notes of Cullen skink. Sturdy as a castle, surprising as a butterfly.

The castle walls began to crumble in around them.

‘Hurry Burt,’ shouted Deirdre, ‘the whole place is quaking!’

Burt was slurring his words but he had a glint in his eye.

‘This is it, Deirdre, this is Wilmur’s Revenge! As soon as I got a whiff … I knew.’

‘Not so fast,’ Wilmur gasped, ‘the curse must pass on to another! Or this castle collapses on top of us!’

‘Deirdre, no!’

She grabbed the quaich and drank the demonic dram, every last drop.

The walls continued to fall and shatter. Wilmur turned and ran through the castle.

‘After him Deirdre!’

While the chase was spirited, Wilmur managed to disappear into the castle’s garden maze. Later that night they heard a helicopter taking off into the distance.

The next morning, Deirdre and Burt woke up with extremely sore heads. A ferry full of holidaymakers had found them sleeping on the beach, surrounded by empty bottles. The two of them were the talk of the cruise, which was on a month-long tour of the isles.

The captain offered them a cabin on board and a seat at the table for dinner.

‘Three years teetotal,’ said Deirdre, ruminating on deck, ‘I suppose it’s a blessing and a curse.’

Burt turned and held her hand. ‘It’s not so bad, Deirdre. Look on the bright side, we’re finally getting that romantic holiday we’ve always dreamed of. We can still have a good time.’

‘A tour of the Scottish islands does sound perfect, my darling.’

‘Yes, my dear. I hear there’s an abandoned cemetery on the Isle of Ghoula that’s nice at this time of year. It is home to a talkative poltergeist. Such a creature may know something of Wilmur’s whereabouts.’

‘Burt, stop it, please!’

Three Years Later

Though the search for Wilmur had been fruitless these past years, rumour had it that he was once again in Scotland, in the hills north of Inverness. As they walked through a Highland meadow strewn with butterflies, wildflowers gave a scent of honey. Burt opened his notebook and pointed towards a deserted farmhouse. They knew they were close. Any minute now they would be face to face with the last remaining case of Wilmur’s Revenge. Once destroyed, Wilmur’s power would be at an end.

But as they entered the building and stood over the case, Deirdre was in two minds.

‘It would be a shame to waste it,’ she said.

‘Agreed,’ said Burt, cracking open a bottle, ‘and may I propose a toast. To absent friends.’

‘To absent friends.’ But the voice that echoed back through the murk wasn’t Deirdre’s — it was Wilmur’s!

Burt took a swig of whisky. ‘We meet again, rascal spirit!’

‘You think you can outwit me and destroy Wilmur’s Revenge? Ha, The Curse must be passed on. The sequence cannot be broken.’

‘The sequence breaks tonight!’

With that the two of them struggled each other to the ground. At first Burt had the upper hand. Then Wilmur. Then Burt again. Finally, Wilmur was subdued and ready to cooperate. Burt poured out a little whisky into a glass.

‘Drink this, Wilmur.’

Reluctantly Wilmur took a sip, knowing it would now be his turn to take on The Curse.

‘Looks like you got a taste of your own medicine,’ said Deirdre, pouring the last drops of Wilmur’s Revenge into a glass and splashing it in Wilmur’s face, ‘that’s the last of it. You’ll have to distil more — and you of all people should know that Scotch whisky must be matured for a minimum of three years! And this stuff? Many more than that. Perhaps we can go for a drink together when the time comes.’

‘Never!’ said Wilmur, fleeing.

Burt and Deirdre walked out into a sunset which sparkled like a single malt.

‘Revenge is sweet, my darling.’

Burt kept his eyes on the road.

‘Let us never talk of this again.’

The End