Fraser's Voices (6 page)

Klamath the heron was too big to do much flying. He had long legs to wade through shallow water and a long neck with a beak a foot long to snatch fish or frogs with a single dart. What he was best at was standing motionless with a patience One-eye or Cruach could never have matched, until something moved in his line of strike, and then the big beak did the rest.

He could fly when he needed to, of course, and he had to in order to reach his nest, a big untidy affair at the top of a tree at the very bottom of the wood, near Sebek's pool, handy for the wetlands and the shore of the loch.

His other reason for flying was to change his fishing grounds and when he felt like doing this he would take off with a jump, coil his long neck back and fly with powerful sweeps of his big grey wings at a very fair speed.

When the water was low he would often do this. He didn't go far. He was no goose to set off on marathons to the other side of the world. Klamath knew where all the pools and burns were between the shore of the loch and the Sgurr and he flew on precise expeditions to definite destinations.

Only he didn't fish within the woods – his wings were too broad to manoeuvre among the branches; so the two biggest pools, Sebek's and Kwarutta's, were places he never visited.

As that stifling July scorched on and the burn dropped and the pools dried out, the toads hid under stones and the frogs buried themselves in the mud. As Klamath strode the shrunken water even the fish lay low and were difficult to find.

Then, once every day or two, he would dive into the air and flap his way over the wood and up above the moor to visit some lonely lochan or the upper reaches of the burn to decide where it might be worth coming down to try his luck. But the fishing was never good enough for it to be worth his while to come back. It was just after one of these expeditions when he had returned to patrol the shore of the loch that he met Fraser.

“What moves?” asked the boy.

“Not much. The water's too low. Besides, it's tainted. There's something in it.”

“I hear the fish are dying upstream.”

“The water's all right up on the moor,” answered Klamath. “No decent fish up there though. It's not too bad down here; just a taint.”

“The fish are dying in the pools in the woods.”

“I don't go there. But there
is
something new on the moor above the woods; a man's house, and yet not really a house; it's on wheels, like a tractor. Anyway he's putting something in the burn. That's what's killing the fish. I went close for a look, but the smell was foul. I wouldn't eat anything that came out of that stretch of the burn.”

“A house on wheels,” thought Fraser. “A caravan, perhaps. On the moor? I wonder where.”

Rona, the vet nurse, was walking Sandy, her big yellow labrador, when he met her. Once or twice, since he had brought the otter to her, Fraser had wondered whether to tell her that animals can talk and that he could talk to them. She wasn't like Jim Douglas, she loved animals, but then she was a lot older than he was and might not take him seriously.

When he did let her into his secret, it was by accident.

Sandy, running ahead of his mistress, came bounding towards Fraser, all paws and tail. The boy had serious matters on his mind just then and without thinking, instead of the usual “Good boy,” gave him “What moves?” in the accent he would have used towards One-eye.

The effect was spectacular. The dog braked to a halt, all four paws spread out, cocked his ears and put his head on one side in a puzzled way.

“Was that you?” he asked.

Fraser didn't feel he could deny it. “Yes. What moves?”

“Where did you learn that trick?” Unlike the wild animals, Sandy knew enough about human beings to be quite certain that, lovable as they were as playmates, unfortunately they could not talk. “Not even my mistress can do that.”

“Some birds taught me when I was in hospital.”

“Birds!” Sandy seemed disappointed. “They're not worth talking to.”

Then an idea struck him and he became so excited that he chased his tail three times round before sitting down in front of Fraser expectantly. “Could you teach my mistress? She's quite intelligent and I think she understands a lot of what I say to her.”

By this time Rona had caught up, clearly baffled. At first it had seemed to her that Fraser and Sandy were barking and growling at each other and she wondered if the boy was teasing the dog. But as she got closer she could see, from his excited jumping and the flailing of his tail that Sandy was delighted about something.

“Hi there,” she called to Fraser and then, as the excited dog continued to bark and jump about, “Sandy, quiet now. Calm down.”

“It's OK,” said Fraser. “He's talking to me.”

“I know, but he's not supposed to bark like that.”

“Then he couldn't talk to me.”

“Of course he could. Dogs talk with their tail and their ears. It's called body language.”

By this time Sandy was completely out of control, bounding round in circles, jumping up on the boy and the girl and making a noise that sounded to Rona like a mixture of a growl, a whine and a yelp. Fraser felt that he needed to prove himself. Anyway it would be OK to tell Rona. She would take him seriously now.

“Will I tell you what he's saying?”

First he calmed the dog. “Your mistress doesn't believe we can talk to each other. So sit still for a minute and I'll explain.”

Sandy lay down with his big brown nose between his paws. Fraser switched to human words. “He says he didn't know humans could learn to talk. He says he thinks you're quite clever and could I teach
you
to talk?”

The girl laughed. “What an imagination you've got!”

“You think I'm kidding?”

He turned to the dog and they exchanged a series of yelps, barks and whines. Fraser translated: “He says you walked him across a field with cows in it this morning. He says that a fox had passed that way just before sunrise; he picked up the scent quite clearly. He says,” more barks and yelps from Sandy, “that you let him off the lead and he got into a burn and got muddy. Then he chased a rabbit – nearly caught it, he says. Is that true?”

Rona's eyes were wide with amazement. “How did you know that? You must have seen us.”

“No. He just told me. Do you want me to ask him anything?”

“Ask him who stole the cold ham mum left on the table last night.”

Fraser obliged with a few growls and grunts.

The answer was unmistakable, even to a human who couldn't understand the language. The dog stood up with his ears flat against his head and his tail curved between his legs, whined a few abject apologies and pushed a big wet nose into Rona's hand for forgiveness.

“He says it was him. He's very sorry,” translated Fraser unnecessarily.

Rona was almost convinced. “Tell him I'm not angry anymore.”

Fraser obliged again and the forgiven thief jumped up with a joyful bark and began licking his mistress' face.

Then it was time for serious human talk.

While Sandy roamed on ahead and periodically reported back to Fraser on what animals had been there before them from the scents they had left behind, Rona was full of questions. How much could Fraser understand? What could he say to the animals? What animals had he spoken to? What did they tell him? How had he learned to speak their language?

The last question worried him. Fraser didn't know how he had come by his gift. But he did know that he had first had it after driving down that road in France with the sunlight flashing through the poplars – the flashing light, the tumbling of his mind. And he knew that he had lost it when he had taken the pills the consultant had given him.

He also knew how he had got it back again. But this he did not tell her.

“But Fraser, you're cured. You're all right now. So how have you got the speech back?”

“I don't know.”

“But if you're only able to speak to the animals when you're sick, you must be sick now!”

“I stopped taking the pills,” Fraser admitted grudgingly.

“You
mustn't; you've got to go on taking them always; you could be seriously ill. Does your mum know?”

Fraser was determined. “You musn't tell mum. I've got to find out what killed the otter.”

“Does that really matter?”

“The fish are dying; the frogs have had to leave the water. You're a vet; don't you care?”

Rona did care; more than that she was fascinated by Fraser's wonderful talent and realised how valuable it would be to a vet; but Fraser might be risking his health, perhaps even his life and she knew that he would have to give up his gift.

She also knew that he understood the animals in a way that neither she nor Cathy could ever really appreciate; so she struck a bargain with him.

She would help him to find the “house on wheels”, as Klamath had put it, and whatever poison was coming from it. And when they found out she would tell Cathy who would know what to do about it.

Until then Fraser would use his ability to converse with the animals to get as much information as possible. But once the mystery was solved and the poison cleared away he would start taking his medicine again and would promise her that he would never, ever stop taking it.

This meant another expedition for Fraser.

There was no point in going back to Kwarutta's pool. According to Klamath the trouble in the burn started further up, on the moor above the wood. So that was where to start; at the point where the burn tumbled through a hole in the wall that divided the wood from the moor, near the spot where he had first seen Eye of the Wind.

To get to the edge of the wood he had to follow a trail that ran beside the upper reaches of the burn and this was worse than what he had seen already. Stains in strange colours sagged gently downstream and here and there were the silver bellies of upturned, dead fish.

Then he was over the wall and on to the open moor. He had been up there once before, the day he had clambered up to the foot of the crags
of Sgurr Mor and had met the eagle face to face.

It was very hot and still and a dull haze hung over the moor so that, although the sky was clear, Fraser could scarcely make out the ghostly outline of the Sgurr.

The place stank. The burn dropped across the moor in a series of steps with little waterfalls and deep rock pools succeeding each other. In the pools there was the same coloured scum and Fraser couldn't see any water boatmen on the surface. The waterfalls had dried up to a drip and the rocks on either side were plastered with a dry, grey, papery substance that seemed to have dried onto them.

Fraser climbed up the bank, taking care not to touch the grey stuff – just in case. After about ten minutes he heard a noise above him and was able to see, on the other side of the burn, perched dizzily above him, a small caravan, and, leading to it, like a fresh wound in the side of the hill, the new Range Rover Track.

As he watched, a man came out of the caravan with a basin in his hands and walked over to the edge of the burn, just above a point where it plummeted fifteen feet clear into a rock pool. The hands came up, the basin tilted and the water launched itself like a diving snake into space to splash against the rocks below.

Dyer turned and disappeared back into the van.

Fraser climbed closer for a better look. Surely a basin-full of dirty dishwater wouldn't kill fish?

Then the man re-appeared, carrying something heavy with difficulty. He balanced it on the ledge above the fifteen foot drop. This, whatever it was, Fraser realised must be the cause of the poisoning further downstream.

“Stop!” he screamed.

Dyer looked up in surprise.

“Don't! You're poisoning the fish.”

Dyer ignored him and tipped the contents of the container over the edge.

Fraser was wild with anger. “Murderer!” he yelled. “You killed the otter and the fish and the frogs.”

“Sod off, Sonny,” growled Dyer.

“You're killing animals. You're a murderer.” Fraser danced with rage.

“I said sod off,” Dyer snarled, “before I put my toe on your backside,” and he took a step forward.

“Murderer! Rotten rat!” Fraser turned and fled as the Australian jumped the burn and bounded towards him across the hillside.

He fled for his life down that steep slope; rocks and heather and black peat leaped at him from left and right; rowan branches slapped his face; and then the bracken; he was floundering head high in the bracken like in one of those nightmares when you have to run for your life and find yourself rooted to the spot.

The speed, the dizziness, the helplessness were all so much like the tumblings of his mind that Fraser was afraid he would black out, to be pounced on, not this time by rooks, but by that murderous ogre who, he knew, was only a strangler's step behind him.

He didn't black out, but just as he was almost in reach of the boundary wall of the wood he landed awkwardly on a loose stone, felt his ankle turn sickeningly and fell, face down, with his mouth full of ferns.

Bhuiridh*, the bearded, shaggy-coated patriarch, surveyed his domain and his subjects. From a rock overlooking the sparse scrubland of the lower moor he watched for any sign of a challenge to his authority, and his magnificent scimitar horns signalled a threat to anyone foolhardy enough to dispute his rights. That one horn had been broken off near the tip was proof that they were not for ornament.

His six wives grazed docilely under the protection of those horns and the jealous stare of his yellow eyes. His innumerable children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren rooted and pawed and bleated in the coarse hill grass.

The other billy goats knew their places, and he tolerated them; even Gobhar
^#
who had once almost dared to challenge his position and would probably one day succeed him; but that day was a long way off. No hunter, fox, wild cat or even eagle, dared approach the flock openly and tradition on the moor related that Bhuiridh had once driven a fully antlered stag off his territory.

Several times a month, as the mood moved him, Bhuiridh led his six wives and the camp followers of his flock along the ancient goat trail that led from the woods across the Ballagan Burn and up on to the higher parts of the moor.

Bhuiridh's predecessor, whom he had defeated and deposed in a bitter skull-butting battle so long ago that no-one else remembered, had done the same. And so had that predecessor's predecessor.

Sometimes, in severe winter weather, deer, coming down from the top of the moor, used the trail, but normally they kept to higher ground; and in the traditions of the animals of the moor it was known simply as ‘the Goat Trail'.

Man respected it too. It was too steep and rough for the ponies that used to bring down the carcasses of stags shot on the hill and they used a gentler route. The tracks crossed at one point, just beyond the Ballagan Burn, but men and goats march to different rhythms and they seldom met.

Recently, Bhuiridh had noted, the pony track had been widened for a new beast of burden that growled and whined ferociously as it took the steep gradient. But that traffic, too, was occasional and posed no threat to his authority.

Sometimes, in his long experience as leader of the flock, Bhuiridh had known the track to become blocked; a fall of rock after a severe storm had washed away the footholds of the boulders, had covered it for a while. But the goats had picked their way through the obstacles and eventually the biggest boulders had worked loose again and trundled further down the slope till they lodged against the boundary wall of the wood.

Very long ago, so tradition on the moor told, a new man, an incomer who did not know the customs of the country, had built a fence across the track. But the goats had leaned and shoved and scratched and levered and in time the fence posts had come out and the wires had snapped, the fence had fallen and the goats had resumed their immemorial pathway.

So now the presence of a man-made thing, a small cottage on wheels, didn't concern Bhuiridh. At present it was possible to go round it; eventually it would rot away and break up; or the autumn floods would wash it away; or the winter winds would hurl it across the hillside.

The younger billies felt differently; too young to see things in the long term as Bhuiridh could, they saw the caravan as a challenge; it had no right to be there; it must be moved; and hard skulls and horns were the tools for this kind of work.

Gobhar, in particular, saw this as his opportunity to gain in status and prestige. If old Bhuiridh couldn't lead the flock any more when there was an enemy to be faced, then perhaps it was time for a change in leadership and he, Gobhar, would not be afraid to take up the challenge in the time-honoured custom of the goats – head on.

Bhuiridh was well aware of this challenge to his leadership. He knew that the things men make are for the moment, lasting only until they go chasing off after a new idea. But a challenge to his leadership was another matter. His horns were the mightiest; his strength was the greatest; he would lead by example.

* pronounced Vooree

# pronounced Gower