Free Neither Dead Nor Alive by Jack Hastie

them are carrying sticks or stone clubs. I can smell their stink from here.
    Fiona finds her voice. “The dirk, Steve.”
    I reach for it, and my heart drops into my guts. It’s gone.
    â€œQuick, Steve.” Fiona’s still calm.
    â€œIt’s not there.”
    â€œWhat d’you mean ‘not there’?”
    â€œMust’ve dropped it when we crossed the ford. I’d a job with that cauldron.”
    â€œYou idiot. You stupid idiot.”
    â€œWell you just left me with the cauldron.”
    â€œMake it with your watch stra…“ her voice tails off. “I’d forgotten you had to lose that, too.”
    She’s clenching and unclenching her fists. “Give them the cauldron. That’s what they’ve come for.”
    I just stand there.
    â€œLook.” She grabs the cauldron and tries to lift it on to its side, but it’s too heavy for her. “Help me.”
    Between us we tip it over on its side.
    â€œNow push,” she says.
    It rolls off down the hill and picks up speed. It leaps from rock to rock till it hits the water in an explosion of spray. Gawawl tries to grab it, but it’s just wide of his reach. At first it floats but ithas hit the water side on and starts to fill up. For a moment it swirls round and round. Then it sinks.
    The Firbogs flounder over to where it went down. They grope with their long arms and stick their heads under water. Gawawl gets a hold on it and hauls it to the surface. He empties it out and drags it back to the bank, though he doesn’t seem to have the sense to float it like I did. He puts it on a rock above high tide and wedges it with a stone so it won’t roll off.
    Then he turns and stares across the water at us. He waves an arm about and calls his mates round him. Then they start to wade across again.
    The tide race is getting faster now, flowing like a river from the sea into the loch. They’re still only about knee deep, but suddenly Gawawl stops. He seems to panic. He’s floundering about and trying to get out of the water as if it’s boiling. They all scramble back to dry land as fast as they can.
    I’m wondering – were there crocodiles in Scotland in the Bronze Age?
    Back on the mainland the Firbogs gather on the bank. They whoop and scream at us. Gawawl beats the cauldron like a drum. But they won’t go anywhere near the water, though it’s still quite shallow.
    Fiona’s got the explanation – as usual: “They can’t cross running water. Remember – in MacPhee’s book.”
    We stare them out and after a while they slope off, dragging the cauldron with them.
    We sit down on the big flat stone at the top of the island. Fiona says it’s holy and we should he safe here. Anyway, Gawawl can’t cross the ford till the next low tide and that’s tomorrow morning. It’s getting dark now, but it’s still very warm. She says it was hotter in the Bronze Age; so we won’t be cold during the night.
    I’m shattered. For a long time I’m too excited to go to sleep but at last I drift off, and I dream that Fiona’s on her knees beside me on the big stone and she’s chanting softly, “The Morrigan. The Morrigan.”

Chapter 13
    STILL ALIVE

    I wake up chittering.
    Whatever Fiona says
about the weather in the Bronze Age, it’s Baltic now. It must be early morning. There’s dew on the grass round us and my
clothes are damp.
    Fiona’s still sleeping.
    I look straight down the hill to the ford where Gawawl had to turn back. There’s the bridge. Away to the right there’s an avenue of trees and a big house; the swish hotel, I suppose.
    Then I notice I’m not lying on the holy stone any more. It’s just moss and heather.
    I give Fiona a shake. “We’re back in today.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œSorry what I said about Aidan.”
    â€œThat’s OK. Where are we?”
    â€œEriska