The Bothy (Part Two)

It’s startin tae get dark when we get tae the other side ay the Ben. When McDade sais we didnae huv tae go up it, it wis either blind optimism or a blatant lie. The only waiy we could get tae the other side wis by goin up an back doon the other side. Another couple ay hikers we met further alang the path assured us ay it.

He sais when he checked the map it looked straight forward enough. Under mare intense questionin it became apparent that the map he’d consulted wis his da’s AA road map an he hud only a vague idea ay where the digs where.

Ah’d gied Pearcey a pair ay trackie bottoms ah hud in ma bag cos the fuckin tube had neglected tae bring anythin else other than the claes he hud oan, a sleepin bag an a kerry oot. ‘There it’s there.’ McDade sais pointin alang the glen we found oorsel in. ‘Dae ye see it?’

Barely visible in the rapidly encroachin darkness, there’s a wee cottage, it’s white waws the only thing makin it staun oot in the murky landscape. ‘That wee hoose? Who’s is it?’ Pearcey sais, incredulous.

‘Nae cunt’s. . . every cunt’s. Ye’ll see soon enough.’ he sais an we follie oan, aw other options noo redundant.

We open the door tae pitch darkness, the stench ay damp an the fetid, pungent odour ay a burnt oot fire. There’s a table an a couple ay chairs that ah discover through walkin intae them. ‘Here, there a box ay matches.’ McDade sais pickin them up fae the mantle piece, lightin wan.

The smell ay its sulphurous tip fills oor nostrils an his face illuminates as he strikes it, dain that Bogeyman face cunts ur inclined tae in concurrence ay the action in such ominous surroundins. ‘Get a fire gaun stupit.’ he sais, rattlin the box intae Pearcey’s haun.

The crackle ay the fire blazin intae life brings a warmth tae the whole room afore the temperature even begins tae rise. Pearcey hud found a box ay fire lighters an some kindlin in the drawer ay a sideboard next tae the windae an there was a pile ay fire wid ready tae keep it gaun fur the night. ‘So, ye’ve no answered the question, whose hoose is this?’ ah sais, still tryin tae get ma heid aroon the situation.

‘It’s a bothy bro. It’s fur any cunt tae staiy in.’ McDade sais, sagely, enjoyin his position ay superior knowledge fur wance.

‘So, ye kin just staiy here fur nuttin like? Nae cunt’s goane come an pap us oot ur they?’ Pearcey sais, warmin his hauns by the fire.

‘Ye cannae just park yer arse forever, but it’s fur any cunt that’s oot here an needs shelter. Hill walkers, climbers an that, use the bothies tae get them in oot the cauld. They’re aw oer Scotland.’

‘Fuckin minted man.’ ah sais ‘Who looks efter them then. . . like, keeps them up tae scratch?’

‘Fuck knows man. Mad hippy cunts ah think. Come up wae wheelbarras an that an dae any repairs that need dain. It’s up tae the cunts that visit no tae turn it intae a shitehole so nae leavin yer empty bottles an joint ends aw oer the gaff, right?’ he sais wae some authority pointin tae the supplies that ur lyin oan the table.

‘Here Pearcey, listen tae her. Back hame ye launch yer empties intae the first gairden at haun ya mad bastart.’ ah sais.

‘Aye but that’s different. Where we staiy’s awready a shitehole.’ he sais wae some perverse reverence.

‘He’s goat a point there Danny.’ Pearcey nods in agreement.

Ah want tae illustrate tae the two dafties that it shouldnae an disnae need tae be like that, if only they implemented the same philosophy when we’re there but ah know it’s pointless so ah nod ma heid an sit doon an spark ma first bottle ay wine afore skinnin up.

Ah wake wae a start, ma neck stiff an sore fae the hard, widden bench that passes fur a bed ah’d went tae sleep oan. Pearcey’s oan another wan in the next room, by the kitchen table, his mooth dribblin slabbers intae a wee pool next tae his face.

McDade’s curled up in the foetal position, cocooned in the confines ay his sleepin bag, lyin oan the flair by the grey, smoulderin remnants ay the fire.

Ah’d fucked off oot ay it leavin the two ay them singin rebel songs efter multiple joints an the best part ay two bottles ay Bucky had taken their toll.

Yawnin loudly ah convince masel that it’s ma usual yawnin style an in nae waiy an attempt tae wake them up. It fails in any case wae McDade seemingly resolutely snorin louder noo than he did aw night an Pearcey garglin, partially submerged in his slavers.

Openin the door ay the bothy ah step ootside tae a thick, soupy mist. There’s a wee rowin boat oot oan the lochan tae the front ay the buildin. It sits oan the gless like surface, perfectly still amongst the translucent haze ay vapour that hings above its cauld depth, tethered tae a rudimentary jetty comprised ay pallets.

It seems fragile, the place - ethereal, like some mad, vivid dream. There’s a noise somewhere in the mist at a higher point ay elevation. A fuckin strange sound, like nothin ah’ve ever heard afore. Ah look through the windae intae the main room where ah’d left McDade an Pearcey. They’re still oot the gemme sleepin. Hud tae make sure. Ma first inclination wis that it wis wan ay them comin the cunt.

Ah’m drawn tae it. Against aw sound judgement ah walk taewards the steep slope behind the bothy an intae the mist. The grun’s boggy an wet, the thick heather an bracken slick wae mornin dew. It sucks an slurps at ma admittedly entirely unsuitable canvas trainers as ah edge further up the slope diggin in wae ma heels fur traction.

The sound comes again; louder this time, reverberatin aroon the glen. Adrenalin pulses through ma veins gien me a heightened state ay awareness an ah consider again whit the fuck ah’m dain oan the lower reaches ay a mountain at hauf six in the mornin wae only the alien sound ay somethin unknown fur company.

My heart’s beatin oot ma chest when ah see it, hot air burstin oot its nostrils like some upturned geysers spewin steam.

Its wild, touseled mane ay hair roon its neck glistens in the mornin light wae wee beads ay moisture hingin oan like baubles oan a christmas tree. Its great gnarled antlers staun twisted an proud, the vegetation that hings fae them somehow suggest that only the passage ay time itsel made them so.

Transfixed an hypnotised by its sheer, audacious beauty, ah staun fur a few minutes in silence, takin him in.

Ah reflect oan how ah came tae be here sharin this moment in time wae him. Ah’d be oan ma waiy tae another day ay graft wae Joe on the buildin site under normal circumstances.

Its ears prick up an it stares at me, forlornly, wae its big wide eyes peerin straight intae ma soul afore bowin its heid wance mare.

We’ve shared a moment, ah feel; a reciprocal acceptance an unnerstaunin ay each other; an equilibrium between man an beast.

Contemplatin ma existence in the scheme ay things, ah notice the big bastart draggin its front hoof backwards, juttin it forward again an draggin it back, repeatin the action. There’s a familiarity tae it that ah cannae quite place.

Wae a snort ay hot, steamy breath fae its nostrils it bounds doon fae its position above an charges me.

Ah’m off, hurtlin back doon the hill oer the thick, springy heather interspersed wae loose escarpment. Gravity aids ma descent an each leapin stride is accompanied by visions ay the big bastart just behind me ready tae gore me wae they fuckin antlers.

Aw directional sense is gone. The only thing that matters is doon.

Doon aff this fuckin hill, doon taewards the flat calm ay the glen below, back tae the bothy. Ah think ah kin hear it right behind me, the grunt ay its breath tauntin me as ah scramble an bound. The grun levels aff as ah reach the bottom an ah stumble, ma momentum kerrien me forward. The clatter ay the loose scree beneath ma feet echoes aboot me as ah try tae stop masel fawin. Ah’m arse oer elbow, tumblin through the opaque greyness ay the mornin. Ah look back as ah spin through the air; back tae where ah’ve came fae tryin tae see - tae see anythin but nothin’s there an then. . . ah plunge intae the deep. Submerged. Overwhelmed. Ah’m in the drink.

Gaspin, ma heid breaks the surface again, the freezin cauld ay the watter expellin aw the air fae ma lungs. Ah thrash aboot, tryin tae find the watter’s edge. Ma claes ur heavy wae the frigid, icy watter, every fibre ay them conquered by it. Aw warmth an energy ah hud is dissipatin rapidly. Ah kick oot an try tae swim but ma body won’t repond. My mooth is open an ah try tae scream oot but nothin comes - a gasp ay a whisper. Ah go under again, the cauld liquid fillin ma open mooth.

The fire spits an crackles again in the bothy as Pearcey stokes it wae coal an log cuttins. Me an McDade huddle roon it, nestled in a bundle ay sleepin bags an jaickets.

Ah wis unconscious when he pulled me oot. Pearcey hud heard the splash an woken him afore they ran oot tae the watterside. They’d scoured alang the pebble beach afore, seein the ripples an bubbles that disturbed the otherwise calm veneer ay the lochan, McDade dived in, swam beneath an pulled me back up tae the surface.

Pearcey gies us baith a cup ay black tea he’d made usin tea bags another visitor hud left in the cupboard.

The warmth ay the tea alang wae the heat fae the fire helps me begin tae come roon tae masel again. Ah want tae speak, tae thank McDade but ma senses ur still numb. He saved ma life, ay that ah’ve nae doubt.

Ah cannae find the words though. No yet.