THE BROCKEN SPECTRE
“You don’t really believe in ghosts, do you?”
For a time I could not answer my companion.
But in the overwhelming gloom of the bothy, with sparks from our peat fire casting fiery trails into the dark throat of the chimney and the wind rattling the shutters, it was difficult to discount the possibility.
“Well, you heard those tales they told us down at the bar. The locals seem to believe there are things out here….. things that keep many off the hill after dark.”
He began to suck noisily at the curved pipe sprouting between his lips.
“Of course I heard them, but I cannot believe a single word they are saying….. a climber who perished in a blizzard and is cursed to walk the ridge whenever there is full moon; the shepherd who lost his arms in the Great War and died of his injuries but still wanders these hills; the wailing child whose cry they all claim to have heard foretelling a death. Absolute nonsense….. having some fun at our expense I am certain.”
Wolfgang had been disinclined to conceal his scorn even as we shared our final drink at the village inn before the long trek back to ‘Shenavall’. I had flinched at every shadow along the track, but he held his head high and whistled a medley of tunes; as happy as if we were strolling the streets of Paris on some summer’s afternoon.
“So you think their tales were designed to wrong-foot us?”
My fellow traveller exhaled a cloud of sweet smoke from his mouth. He leant closer to the burning embers in the grate and shook his head slowly.
“Wrong-foot? Is that one of your English expressions? Listen, my friend, peasants the world over take great delight in sharing their childish legends with gullible strangers, don’t you think? Blood-sucking vampires from deep in the mountains of Transylvania….. Abominable Snowmen from the icy tops of the Himalayas…..”
There was perhaps a universal truth in what he implied. But our drinking companions in the Dundonnell Inn earlier tonight had hardly seemed the type to make sport of outsiders despite Wolfgang’s arrogant tone whenever he spoke to them. On the contrary, they had been keen to offer advice – identifying the best line of ascent from the lake shore, the gullies most prone to avalanche and which route would prove safest should foul weather prevail. It had only been later, when several drams of whisky had been shared, that the talk turned to supernatural matters.
“Why, even my own compatriots tell such tales – the Brocken Spectre of the Swiss Alps. Supposedly a vast, grey creature stalks the summits and dissolves into cloud after inviting unwary travellers to plunge to their deaths.”
He smirked as he relished such thoughts.
“But every paranormal occurrence has a perfectly logical, scientific explanation….. even the Brocken Spectre.”
My growing scepticism must have been apparent from the look he gave me.
“I swear, Edwin, I have seen one myself and I am here to tell the tale. It is simply a meteorological phenomenon. An atmospheric aberration caused by nothing more mystifying than a specific combination of local climatic conditions and solar positioning. I can explain in more detail if you so wish…..”
My brooding silence seemed to encourage him further, when all I really desired was some peace and quiet in which to savour my cocoa before what would probably turn out to be an uncomfortable night’s sleep.
“Imagine a deep valley, choked with dense mist or low cloud while above it in clear air stand the mountain peaks and highest ridges. These conditions are frequent in the winter when there has been a frost and the air is still. Meteorologists call it a temperature inversion I am informed. Now, imagine a climber standing on a high ridge overlooking such a valley, with the sun behind him at an angle of between thirty-five and forty-five degrees above the horizon. He will undoubtedly notice his own shadow cast….. not onto the ground at his feet, but onto the swirling broth of cloud flooding the valley below. In ideal conditions the size of his shadow will be magnified to such an extent that he may indeed believe he is looking at a giant composed of nothing more substantial than mist. But if he looks closer, waves an arm perhaps or kicks out a foot, he will see the creature make the identical gesture. What he sees is nothing more sinister than his own shadow. So tell me, my friend, are you frightened of your own shadow?”
I shared his condescending laughter, but the source of mine lay more in trepidation than delight.
“No, of course not. Such tales will not keep me from the hills, I assure you. I shall be raring to go in the morning, you’ll see. In fact, I plan on starting out soon after dawn, so I hope you will excuse me if I retire to my bunk.”
We shook hands and wished each other pleasant dreams.
But as I lay coiled in my blankets, and watched the fading firelight throw red flashes across the dark ceiling of our shelter, sleep seemed as distant as the peaks I intended reaching the following day. A sudden spatter of hail on the wind almost made me cry out in fear as it struck the tin roof. And later, in the deepest recesses of night, I heard the wretched bark of a vixen somewhere close by….. although it was not difficult to convince myself that it was the cry of a child, a lost child on the treacherous slopes of the hill they call the Forge.
- o - o - o -
Any lingering doubts from the previous night were swept away as soon as I opened the wooden door to the bothy and gazed out at the glorious panorama before me the next morning. The broad valley of Strath na Sealga with its braids of stream and its vast loch separated two majestic ridges – An Teallach, or the Forge, behind me, and Beinn Dearg Mor directly ahead. The hail during the night had been replaced by a substantial fall of snow on the high tops, but I was more than adequately prepared. By the time Wolfgang pulled the door to behind us, nothing could have made me reconsider the day’s itinerary.
“Are you sure you will be all right, Edwin? There is snow lying as low as five hundred metres by my estimation.”
My companion was already swathed in a thick coat and had a sturdy alpenstock in one hand and a pair of mittens in the other.
“I have my ice axe. I have walked in worse conditions, believe me. The river below is frozen still so I would expect the snow to be clean and crisp on the tops. Nothing to worry about.”
He shook my hand again before putting on his gloves then we set off on our separate ways. Wolfgang was following the valley floor in the direction of Poolewe and the coast. I had higher ground in my sights and began to follow the steep path uphill at the back of the bothy.
I love the hills and never fail to find fresh delight in them each time I set foot on their tops. The challenge of pitting my skills against the elements, of roaming where there are no paths or signposts, of putting my experience to use often in the most difficult circumstances, discovering my limits and sometimes being forced to exceed them. Where else can one learn so much about one’s character, and push oneself beyond the mundane in such beautiful, awe-inspiring surroundings? After my time in France I felt such pleasures even more keenly.
I paused as I began the slow ascent of Sail Liath and looked down again into the valley already quite far below. ‘Shenavall’ bothy was just a small, dark smudge now, and although I scanned the shores of Loch na Sealga there was no trace of the Swiss fellow. With his scientific brain no doubt he could tell me the exact altitude of every peak that bordered that valley, with the aid perhaps of his clinometer and barometer; could calculate the angle of every slope and estimate the distance and exact compass bearing of every landmark. But I doubt he ever considered pausing long enough to study and savour the pattern of cloud on rock or to touch the fabric of the mountains beneath his feet. Anyone who witnessed the burning red clouds of sunset high above the cauldron of Loch Toll an Lochain, a vision of some mystical furnace that gave this noble mountain its name, would stand in awe. But Wolfgang would merely consult his notebook and decide that the weather was about to change for the better.
For the briefest moment I was reminded of the previous night’s talk. Few I spoke to at the inn had ever set foot on these hills, even though most of them had lived within sight of their sandstone battlements since the day they were born.
“It’s a right leery place, ya ken.”
“No one will be wanting to go there unless they’re in the mood fer trouble. Why would a man drag hisself up to such a place?”
“Keep yer feet on the groond, laddie. There’s nothing there fer man or beastie.”
The banter had been gentle and not intended to dissuade me from my climb. But having stared death in the face less than six years ago and survived the trenches I considered each successful climb a declaration of life. This was my own personal battle against the darkness that sometimes assailed me when I sank too readily into melancholy.
The boulder field two-thirds of the way up the flanks of Sail Liath brought my dash to a premature end. Like crossing a minefield, every step now had the potential for disaster. One careless slip of a boot could result in the twist of an ankle, the tear of ligament or crack of bone as the hidden hollows set traps for the unwary. A sudden explosion of white nearby set my heart galloping as a ptarmigan propelled itself from the shelter of the rocks to the hidden slopes below. As its whirring flight carried it out of earshot I could laugh at my nervous behaviour. Nothing could harm me here. I was in my element.
Gradually the gradient eased. The boulder-field gave way to a pavement of gnarled, grey rock. Cobwebs of ice laced the damper patches, and here and there small cairns of rock identified the correct path towards the Corrag Bhuidhe buttress; the first obstacle between myself and the main ridge of An Teallach. As I passed the largest cairn I could not help but stare at the pyramid of rocks; each boulder the size and shape of a skull, each with its own set of gaping eyes and twisted mouth.
The slopes leading down to the base of Corrag Bhuidhe held fresh drifts of snow, pristine beneath the bluest of skies. The tower of red sandstone beyond held a coating of verglas where the sun’s rays had yet to reach, but my eyes were already drawn to a faint, twisting trail that threaded a way upwards. From ledge to ledge, with a cool head but thrumming heart, my hands found holds and my feet scrabbled for purchase on the angled rock, until I finally found myself on the skyline with the darkest chasm of corrie down to my right.
The loch of Toll an Lochain that filled this rock basin was ominously dark, and tendrils of grey cloud seemed to hover upon its surface before floating up towards the sunlit ridge. I took off my deerstalker and gazed in wonder at the panorama of rock, snow, water and moor-land laid out below with the blue line of sea beyond. The corrie itself lay deep in shadow still and I imagined on another day it might well be flooded with cloud. My own shadow would suddenly appear stretched out upon its treacherous surface….. my own Brocken Spectre, following my every step then leaping out to startle me when I least expected it.
Perhaps I had indeed been scared by my own shadow. Perhaps Wolfgang’s lurid talk had unnerved me and that is what caused me to twist away in reflex from the edge of the precipice. Whatever the reasons, vertigo or superstitious fear, my feet suddenly skidded away from under me and I lost all sense of direction. The sound of hobnails on rock rang in my ears before I landed on my back. Fortunately my rucksack cushioned my bones against the rocks, but the angle of slope was such that I was propelled towards the rim of crag overhanging the steepest cliffs.
My ice axe stood propped against the apex of the buttress, far out of reach. I braced my elbows and dug my fingers into the snow and loose shards of rock, desperate to gain control over my precarious situation. But already snow was sliding up into my sleeves and inside the back of my jacket as I slid relentlessly towards my death.
It was my rucksack that saved me from the final plunge into oblivion. Fate or perhaps some ethereal coincidence caused my progress downslope to be suddenly halted. I lay wedged in a crevice, trapped by my sack but with my legs and feet hanging over the abyss. I awaited the cruel termination of my good fortune; the painfully slow sensation as my body slid further downslope, carried down by its own weight, inch by frozen inch until the rocky jaws released their tenuous grip and I plunged into open air. But the moment never came.
Rather, it was a gnawing cold that ate at my limbs and face until I could feel the blood slow in my veins. I called out. Of course I did, although the feeble sound of my voice sounded unreal and cannot have carried more than a few yards. My vision grew faint, then I felt snow on my face and realised that a dense layer of cloud had descended upon the ridge. I dared not try to free myself for to do so would send me hurtling to my death. I thought back to those darkest days in France when I decided I could no longer pray to a deity that allowed such suffering. I closed my eyes and searched for the words I had muttered by rote since an infant.
The voice of the angel when it came was desperate and barely audible. The words were garbled and more often than not carried away on the wind before they reached my ears. But I heard them all the same. Then an avalanche of snow cascaded over my shoulders and chest before spilling into the darkness below.
“Reach…. behind you….. reach behind…..”
I could not turn my head. Could neither see my saviour nor ascertain his intentions. But I raised my stiff arms up to my ears, then higher until I was convinced one more movement would dislodge my sack and send me to infinity. Something cold touched my fingers. Cold as steel and as welcome as a handshake. I gripped the head of my ice axe and as my fingers closed around its shaft felt it pull me slowly upwards.
My freedom was short-lived as the sack now became snagged on the rocks above making any further escape in that direction impossible. I was terrified. Had I been hauled free only to fall the remaining three hundred feet onto the rocky shores of Loch Toll an Lochain?
“Hold still a wee while…..”
I froze as I felt something tug at the straps of my sack. Then suddenly I was cut loose from its bindings with nothing to secure me now except my iron grip on the slender shaft of my ice-axe.
“Now turn over, man……turn over.”
I closed my eyes and with my left hand still clamped onto the axe rolled onto my belly, my right hand groping blindly for something to grab hold of – snow, rock, air, anything. But what I felt instead was the sleeve of a jacket. And as my sack slid free of my shoulders I was tugged upwards suddenly by a superhuman force; upwards until my trembling body lay once more in submission at the summit of Corrag Bhuidhe.
I did not hear my sack hit the sides of the mountain’s rocky throat as it fell into the depths. I did not hear the cold ring of steel as my axe struck the icy shoreline far below. I did not hear the croaking ravens as they were dislodged from their perches by the commotion, or the haunting whisper of wind between the rocky pinnacles.
My senses were focussed entirely on my redeemer; an old man, half in shadow and half in pitch black. He stood with his back to the blizzard, yet it was the front of his body that was most caked in snow and ice. Then I realised that his clothes were steaming despite the cold, and the ice that crusted the rough sack mantling his shoulders had taken on the slickness of a newborn lamb coated with the lubrication of its birth. Before my incredulous eyes the man’s jacket became invisible as the steaming fabric dissolved into cloud and driven snow. But it was the lingering forms of the two sleeves that my eyes studied most closely until all was mist. Sleeves enclosing two strong arms that had pulled me from the jaws of death, empty sleeves that flapped like flags in the rising wind.
I lay like a corpse for some time until the greyness became twilight and I would have surely frozen to the rock had I not moved on. No one was left to hear me gasping for breath. No one watched me weeping with relief nor retching with terror. My saviour, the shepherd with stumps for arms, had faded into the sandstone rocks nearby. There were no footprints in the snow to tell of his passing, and the imprint on both of my hands was that of steel or stone rather than flesh, human or otherwise.
With darkness threatening to bewilder me with fresh torment I began a hasty retreat into the snow-choked col between the pinnacles and the grey whale-back of Sail Liath. I slid and skittered down the Corrag Bhuidhe like a complete novice, but never was I more grateful to fall than when I finally stumbled face down into the deep drifts of snow at its foot.
There is a dark gully that descends directly to the shores of Loch Toll an Lochain from this col, but I had no confidence for such a swift descent. I imagined that if I were to take that short-cut I would lose my footing and finally be reunited with my battered rucksack somewhere amongst the snow-coated rocks far below. My mind was set on a return to the bothy where I had lain in safety less than ten hours earlier.
I took little notice of my magnificent surroundings now. Many a day I had gladly weathered storms on the highest ridges of Snowdonia or Glen Torridon, relishing the exposure and the play of the elements. But now I had no appetite for these hills. I barely paid heed to the cairns guiding me to safety once I reached Sail Liath’s summit. But I was acutely aware that these stones bore an even stronger resemblance to a collection of skulls now, coated as they were in fresh snow and rime. And I knew with an uncanny certainty that if I searched the cluster of rocks I would come across one particular skull containing a meticulously assembled arrangement of brass cogs, glass dials and steel springs. The Swiss after all are renowned for their expertise in crafting delicate instruments.
I wept again as I staggered between the boulders that flanked the unforgiving slopes of this wretched hill. Swept snow from my hair and screamed for forgiveness as I sought the faintest of traces of life in the valley below. The wind assailed me as I reached level ground again and it was the scent of burning peat that led me to safety rather than the faintest strip of light marking the door jamb.
By the time I was outside the bothy my fists were curled into clumps of frozen flesh but I would have beaten them against the wooden door until they bled. Anything to feel the warmth of the fire again.
The door was swung open by a young girl. Her body was surrounded by a welcoming flood of bright light and a gasp of warm air. She seemed not to acknowledge me as she pulled the door quickly shut on our heels.
“I thought I heard somebody out there.”
I followed her into blazing light. The shadows of the previous evening seemed to have retreated into the four corners of the room. I was grateful for the change. Heat radiated from the red embers of the fire. I made my way towards the grate, conscious of my rude entry but desperate for warmth.
A second girl and two young men sat on benches close by. The girl who had let me in returned to join them and reached for a canister of drink.
“It’s just the wind, Sinead. I told you.”
My friend the vixen barked to her mate again.
“And what was that then, Cam? Jeez, this place is like that ruddy hotel in ‘The Shining’.”
“Och, hen don’t get your thong in a twist. Haven’t you heard a wee kelpie before?”
I was still too numb to speak. These people had been kind enough to let me stand in front of their fire until my clothes were steaming like the shepherd’s. No doubt they would share what food and drink they had if I were to ask, but I felt more of a stranger here tonight than I had in the Dundonnell Inn. The bothy had been cramped enough when Wolfgang and I had slept here. Where could we all possibly lay down in privacy once it was time to sleep?
At last the girl called Sinead stood and reluctantly made her way towards the fire.
“Well whatever happens, I’m going to make sure this doesn’t go out over night.”
I made to stand aside in order to let her pass but was too tardy and suddenly her hand was on my thigh. Then her right wrist and forearm slid into my flesh and I felt fire and ice and frightening pain as her fingers dug into the very quick of me.
We both screamed at once….. but it is unlikely anyone heard mine.
“Christ, there’s something there.”
The girl recoiled from me.
“There. Right by the fire. I touched it.”
“For God’s sake Shin, get a grip. Have yerself another bevvie and chill out.”
“But it felt like I put my arm into a freezer or something. It was there, I swear it was.”
“What was?” the second girl asked. “Like some kind of poltergeist or something? Oh my God.”
The two men laughed and one of them began making wailing noises. Just like in that music-hall charade my parents had taken me to see when I was home on leave.
Sinead’s friend put a stop to the banter.
“Ok, you guys, joke’s over. Cut it out.”
“Why? We’re only having a laugh, you wusses. You don’t really believe in ghosts, do you?”
- o - 0 - o -
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