Wildfire at Midnight Read Free

"Sgurr Alasdair," he said again.
    The fair man grinned, and said something in Gaelic which brought an answering grin to the boatman's face. Then he said to me: "Murdo's right, of course. It's Alasdair on the maps—it was rechristened after some mountaineer or other; but I like the old names best. Sgurr Biorach it is, and that next to it is Sgurr Dearg, the Red Peak." His pointing finger swung towards the last towering pinnacle, black against the sunset. "Sgurr nan Gillean." He dropped his hand and gave me the sort of smile that holds the hint of an apology—the Britisher's regret for having displayed an emotion. He said lightly: "And you couldn't have had your first sight of them under better conditions. Sunset and evening star—all the works, in fact, in glorious Technicolor."
    "You must be a mountaineer," I said.
    "A climber? Yes, of a sort."
    "He's a good man on the hill, is Mr. Grant," said Murdo.
    Grant took out cigarettes, offered them to me and Murdo, then spun a spent match into the water. He said to me: "Have you come for long?"
    "A week or ten days. It depends on the weather, If it stays like this, it'll be heaven."

    "It won't," he said confidently. "What d'you say, Murdo?"
    The boatman cast a dubious eye at the southwest, where the Atlantic merged its long and glimmering reaches into a deep blue sky. He jerked a thumb in that direction, and spoke briefly and to the point. "Rain,"
    he said.
    "Oh dear." I was dismayed. This golden prospect seemed, now that I was here, to be infinitely more desirable than the rain-washed hills of my dreams.
    "Never mind," said Mr. Grant cheerfully, "it'll improve the fishing." I must have looked blank, because he added: "You do fish, of course?"
    "Oh no." To my own surprise I sounded apologetic. "But I—I could learn."
    His interest quickened. "You climb, then?"
    "No." I felt suddenly very urban and tripperish. "Actually I came for a—a rest, and quiet. That's all."
    His eye fell on my cases. "London?" He grinned. "Well, you've certainly come to the right place if you want to get out of the crowds. You'll have no neighbors except the Black Cuillin, and the nearest of them is—" He stopped abruptly.
    "Nearest?" I glanced at the hotel, much closer now, islanded in its green valley, dwarfed and overborne by one great solitary mountain to the east. "That mountain? Is that one of them too? You didn't speak of it before. What's it called?"
    He hesitated perceptibly. "That's Blaven."
    The boatman took his cigarette from his mouth, and spat into the water. "Blahven," he repeated, in his soft Highland voice. "Mph—mm. . . ."
    "The Blue Mountain ..." said Grant in a voice that was almost abstracted. Then he pitched his cigarette into the water, and said abruptly: "Was London so very crowded?"
    "Oh yes. It's been steadily filling up with people and excitement for months. Now it's like a great pot slowly simmering to boiling point."
    Murdo turned the boat's nose neatly towards the river mouth. "London, is it?" His voice held a naive note of wonder. "Did ye not want to stay and see the Coronation, mistress?"
    "In a way, I did. But I—I've been a bit overworked, so I thought a holiday was a better idea after all."
    "What made you come here?" asked Grant. His eyes were still on the Blue Mountain.
    "To Skye? Oh, I don't know—everybody wants to visit Skye at some time or other, don't they? And I wanted quiet and a complete change. I shall go for long walks in the hills."
    "Alone?" There was something in Murdo's expression that made me stare at him.
    "Why, yes," I said in surprise.
    I saw his eyes meet Grant's for a moment, then slide away to watch the approaching jetty. I laughed. "I shan't get lost," I said. "The walks won't be long enough for that—don't forget I'm a city bird. I don't suppose I'll get farther than the loch, or the lower slopes of—Blaven, was it? Nothing much can happen to me there!" I turned to Mr. Grant. "Does Murdo think I'll go astray in the mist, or run off with a