The Laird of the Glen

The runner lay sprawled amongst the heather, its head blossoming into a crimson flower. The boy didn’t bother turning it over — death was self evident. Looping a cable beneath its stiffened chest, he winched the corpse up and onto the flatbed alongside the others. The glen remained still while he worked, the day’s pace giving way to the cool drawdown of evening.

Giving his grisly cargo a final check, the boy jumped into the buggy’s cabin and flicked the engine to life, hearing the hum of its solar charged motor. High beams broke through the gloom, and he realised how quickly the light had faded since he’d left the others. They clustered below him in the belly of the glen, a collection of vehicles, their headlights producing distant cones of illumination. The guests were down there too, precious VIPs, relaxing after a day of ancient sport and landscape. He waited patiently for them to depart, observing from his vantage on the slopes as they finished their drinks. Traditionally, guests should never witness their quarry unless through a scope. The boy didn’t question why: customs kept lives in order and ways intact.

The return journey followed a ragged track across the moors. Heavy Summer rains had blasted the landscape, transforming one time roads into a quagmire, forcing the boy to pay careful attention to what the headlights described ahead. Though the day’s hunt had long since concluded, his work would stretch late into the night. The thumps and bangs from behind the cabin came as a constant reminder — the spoils of the hunt were bound for the forest bordering the estate. There he would bury them, tipping the flat bed into a long trench dug weeks prior. It would be full by the time the last guest departed, a fresh mound of earth lying beside many others like it, tribute to seasons past. His belly rumbled but he ignored it. Only once he’d returned to the house, washed the buggy, and cleaned the rifles would he be given leave to eat.

He thought of his parents during the long drive back, the lives they led scratching an existence from the land, their desperation when crops failed and tenancies rose. He was luckier than they, afforded security they could never achieve, for he worked for the estate, and the estate looked after its own.

Eating in silence, he sat in his room with a bowl of broth perched upon his lap, the clocks having long since struck midnight. His chores were over, and the time between now and dawn was his alone. Above him, on the upper floors of the house, came sounds of revelry. A banquet played to honour the estate’s newest arrivals. Morning would bring another hunt, though he doubted if those above would be fit enough of mind and body. He cared not, for their welfare was not his to fret over. Pulling a blanket up to his ears, he fell into dreamless sleep.

His Father had told him to stay away from the cities. It’s hard, but also honest out here on the land, the man explained, extolling his beliefs in community and solidarity. The boy went to school while his family toiled in the wind and the rain, attending classes broadcast across a nation to a thousand identical classrooms. Those unable or unwilling to attend were soon weeded out. It mattered not if you were ill, mentally unsound, or simply unmotivated, you stopped school if your time could be put to better use in field or workshop. The boy stayed long enough to learn the alphabet and some times tables, absorbing accounts of why things came to be; how experiments in democracy and society brought the world to the brink before those of ancient title regained the reigns.

The boy rose before almost anyone else in the household. Only the kitchen hands could claim earlier. Entering the armoury, he checked the rifles the guests would later use. Dozens of examples stood on display, some as old as the house itself, others more modern, their furniture fashioned from carbon and plastic. He treated each piece with reverence, for though he could repair and mend to some degree, the weapons on display were functioning relics, as valuable to the house as all its others riches put together. Bearing the particular importance of the guests in mind, he settled upon two very different choices. The Gewehr 98 came first, an ancient Germanic weapon that cycled as smoothly as the day it was forged over two centuries ago.The other firearm to leave the rack sat in stark contrast. Sleek and black, it would spare the blushes of those less familiar with the sport of marksmanship. Atop its body sat a mechanical brain, superior in aim to that of flesh and blood. With a click of a button, the scope would mark a point then guide the shooter’s aim till the barrel pointed true. With such a rifle in hand, even a child could make shots a master would struggle to deliver.

The boy waited for the guests in the buggy, his precious charge of rifles secured in a rack behind his seat. The host and his company emerged an hour later, their eyes reddened and their features pale. As suspected, they did not look well enough to endure a long day in the hills. Grumbling and moaning in strange accents, they were dismissive of everything they laid eyes upon. The boy avoided looking in their direction, or reacting to the barbs aimed at himself and others. Laughter barked occasionally from the guests, a kind of boisterous shout to let others know their place.

He was startled when a hand rattled the cabin door.

‘Bloody latch,’ said a voice, its owner struggling with buggy’s door. A face appeared at the window, cheeks red and eyes bloody. ‘You there, boy. Open this.’

Frozen in place, the boy sat paralyzed by the breach of protocol: A gun boy must never address a guest, regardless of circumstance. Pulling harder against the door, the man struck at the window, the rings on his finger rapping sharply against glass. The boy remained seated, staring directly ahead, not daring to worsen an already dire contravention. The guest paused then turned away, his attention caught by a rising crescendo of laughter.

‘Fram, you old fool!’ someone cried, ‘As if buggering the maid wasn’t enough, now you’re fraternising with the gun boy?!’

The man’s face dropped. Muttering beneath his breath, he shot the boy a cold look before lumbering off in the direction of the guest carriage. Remaining silent, the boy prayed no further transgressions would occur. He departing when the other vehicles signalled ready, leading the convoy back along the track towards the hunting grounds.

The boy had never discovered where the quarry came from. They arrived in cattle trucks during the early hours, a few dozen wretched figures at a time, their clothing reduced to soiled rags that stank like midden pits. He was fascinated and repelled by them in equal measure. Some spoke in indecipherable tongues, others screamed and threatened violence, their desperate eyes aflame within emaciated faces. Those too sick or exhausted to move were coaxed with a dose of marching powder. Failing this, they were excluded from the hunt, awaiting quiet dispatch via poison or bolt.

A pair of runners were already loose by the time the convoy arrived. The boy watched as they worked their way across heather covered slopes, moving quickly towards the boundary where they’d been promised sanctuary and release. Of course it was a ruse: the entire hillside was enclosed by a twenty foot mesh of razor topped wire. The game was rigged, but people only played if they felt they had a chance of winning.

Parking to one side, the boy unpacked his shooting table, rifles, and ammunition.

‘Excellent,’ said the Laird, striding across and picking up the Ghwer, inspecting it before chambering a round. ‘Now, gentlemen. Let me demonstrate.’

Removing his wax jacket, the Laird leaned against the table’s gun rest, tracking the nearest runner who stumbled on. Silence descended, and through a pair of ancient field glasses the gun boy studied the scene. The first target was tall and dark haired, her pale skin almost luminous against the muted browns of the hill. When the rifle cracked she came to a stop, a red stain spreading down her back. Slumping over, she sunk beneath a sea of bracken, leaving the gun boy precious little time to mark her position on his plastic coated map. Pulling the bolt back to the sound of brass hitting table, the Laird stood up, leaving the rifle resting in place as a servant moved to replace his master’s jacket.

‘Who fancies the next one?’ the Laird asked, looking towards the assembled group of guests who shuffled around in various states of hang over.

‘Come come, don’t be shy.’

A man stepped forward.

‘Excellent,’ said the Laird, turning to the servant. ‘See that he’s made comfortable.’

While the servant fretted over his new charge’s posture, the other runner reached the boundary of the range. Hastened by his colleague’s departure, the man paced frantically beside the fence, seemingly unsure whether to attempt the climb or to continue along its length.

Putting his eye to the scope, the guest panned the rifle round.

‘That’s it, but keep it tighter to your shoulder. It’ll kick otherwise,’ advised the servant.

‘Like a shotgun?’

‘A bit more. Just keep it in tight. Yes, that’s better.’

The runner decided to climb, leaping onto the fencing, causing ripples to flex along its lengths. The guest pushed the bolt forward, chambering a round with a click.

‘You’ll need to aim a little higher because he’s at the fence line. I suggest keeping the 3rd… ’

The runner reached the half way point, his form stretched spider like across the wire links. Through the glasses, the gun boy could see the strips of shirt the man had wrapped round his hands to spare his palms. It wasn’t working. The wraps were already bloodied and torn.

‘And when you’re ready, gently squeeze the…’

The report seemed louder this time, causing the gun boy to flinch despite familiarity. Through the glasses, he saw that the runner was still on the fence. Assuming he’d missed, the guest cycled the bolt, readying himself for another shot. He was interrupted when the Laird delivered a pat on the back. Looking closer, it was clear the runner was no longer climbing.

For the rest of the afternoon, a procession shuffled past the table, each guest receiving an opportunity to shoot a live target before retiring for refreshments beneath a small marque. It went smoothly for the most part, despite numerous misses, or shots which maimed instead of killing. In such cases a standby shooter would quickly dispatch the winged quarry, for prolonged screaming was considered very off putting.

The light was fading when the last shooter took his place at the table. Further down the field, his counterpart was coaxed from the back of a cattle truck, grumbling and swearing as fire powder was rammed up his runny nostrils. The handlers shoved him down a ramp and into the mud, but he didn’t play as expected. Staggering to his feet, he hobbling off towards the hunting group instead, forsaking the desired sprint up the hill. The handlers swore and shouted at him, sticking his flanks with electric prods and flinging stones in an attempt to shoo him away. The man kept going, driven by a mixture of fear and powder, following the fence down towards the assembled crowd, prompting one of his handlers to produce a pistol. The Laird intervened at the last moment, whistling then sticking his hand up in a come this way gesture. The gun boy realised they had to oblige the guest one way or another — they’d all paid a considerable sum to be here today. The boy looked across at the table, and realised it was the same man who’d chastised him through the buggy window. Sitting there, he looked large and sagging, and despite having done little all day, his skin was flushed deep red.

The quarry came closer still, limping a little from some earlier punishment, his face and arms bloodied where stones and kicks had struck. He was older than most in attendance, and also much thinner, his eyes shining bright from within the grime of his face. The group watched in silence as the man stopped not twenty meters from the edge of the table, leaning against the dividing fence as if resting after a long day’s toil. The reserve shooter shuffled uneasily, unnerved by the quarry’s proximity. Numerous rules were being broken, yet somehow the scene had taken on a life of its own, as if the quarry had reworked the game and was now, however briefly, in control.

He raised a bloodied hand as if to greet an old friend, waving lazily before calling out with a thin voice. ‘Good evening, you bastards.’

A chuckle reverberated through the group, the degree of irony, cheek and bravado connecting with their humor.

‘I had mind to,’ the man coughed, ‘to thank you cunts for allowing me an audience.’

‘Shouldn’t you be running?’ Asked someone beneath the marque, their words slurring slightly beneath a glut of afternoon refreshment. More laughter followed, though this time with a crueler edge.

‘I know a rigged game when I see one,’ continued the man. ‘My friends all fell this afternoon, and they could each ran far faster than I.’

‘What do you propose then?’ Asked the Laird, carrying on the facade of levity in spite of the stranger’s boldness.

‘That we sit a while, and enjoy the sweet air.’

There came a thud and a sudden curse. Shells rolled noisily across the shooting table. The guest had managed to eject the magazine. He flapped about, trying the re-seat the rifle with one hand while reloading it with the other. Everyone laughed: the Laird, his guests, the staff. Even the quarry, his form slumped against a fence post, chest heaving with obvious effort.

‘Enough!’ said the guest at the table, pulling the rifle from its stand and hoisting it to his shoulder. The gun boy moved to intervene, more concerned for the rifle than the irate guest, but he was too late.

With a crack, the weapon lurched back, striking the guest’s face. Screaming, he dropped the rifle, letting it clatter off the table. The gun boy dashed past, desperately reaching to retrieve his charge. It lay stricken in the mud, the stock scratched and the scope smashed. Both man and boy cried in pain, their dazed expressions linked in shock. The man stumbled, still clutching his face, tripping as he met the boy’s hunched form. He landed heavily on all fours as servants rushed to his aid. When he came up, his front was darkened by spittle, mud, and rage.

‘You little shit!’ The man cried, pointing at the gun boy who was desperately trying to clean the tarnished Ghwer. Two Servants held the guest back while another did his best to clean jacket and shirt.

‘Stupid bastard,’ said the runner, still leaning against the fence, no worse for wear. ‘Give me the rifle. It’s my turn.’ The Laird glanced at him then snapped his fingers. The reserve shooter stepped forward and quickly did what the first shooter could not.

Handlers dragged the still twitching corpse away while the Laird ordered drinks for everyone. The gun boy was sent back in the buggy to tend to the rifle as best he could. Only the guest could not be sated, for he demanded satisfaction one way or another.

‘I’ll not hear of it!’ he said, pushing servants away and pointing towards the Laird.

‘Your quarry’s dead, sir,’ replied the Laird, ‘The rifle’s ruined and there’s maybe half an hour left in the day. There’ll be no more shooting tonight.’

‘I demand it.’

‘Not possible, my man. Perhaps another day, hmmmm? When everything’s a bit more settled.’

The guest drew himself up before quietly asking, ‘Have you ever seen what happens to a sanctioned estate?’

The others stopped what they were doing and looked round, catching the Laird’s face turning a few shades paler.

‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ he said, no longer smiling.

‘Poor management. Dreadful hospitality,’ The man paused for effect, ‘lack of respect for one’s guests.’

The Laird remained silent, face stony.

The gun boy walked across the grass with a different rifle in hand. It was larger than the Ghwer, and heavier too. He took care not to touch the bulbous looking scope and its various protrusions. He was furious inside, indignant at having to pass yet another priceless weapon to someone who’d sullied the first. He worked in silence, prepping the weapon and starting its mechanical brain, waiting for the green light that signaled its readiness to fire.

The man took his place at the table once more, looking down through the sight then making himself comfortable.

‘Get me a target,’ he said, not bothering to look at the Laird, ‘Send the boy up.’

Something passed across the Laird’s face, like a ripple of emotion.

‘May I suggest one of the dogs instead?’ he said, ‘I’ll have one put loose…’

‘The boy,’ came the guest’s reply, ‘I came here to shoot game, not vermin.’

In the silence that followed, the gun boy heard his heart thud in his chest, and felt a jolt of shock when the Liard looked at him with glassy eyes before giving the briefest of nods.

He walked back along the fence line, moving down towards the rusty cattle trucks and the gate into the reserve. It wasn’t real any more. He’d left the world as soon as that hand had twitched the command to go. His life, his knowledge of how things worked, his feeling of security.

The handlers stood round the trucks, watching as he approached. ’Take this, son,’ said one, his cupped hand filled with the white powder.

The boy shock his head in reply, not wanting to cloud his head with powered fire. He wondered what his chances were. Could he convince himself to play the game, or was it better to simply walk up the hill, and not give the guest the sport he desired.

Dusk descended as he moved towards distant peaks, the dying light turning the browns and greens of the glen ever darker as he went. He thought about his parents, how they too had struggled and died on land like this, as had a thousand generations before them. He thought about the rifle, how well he’d maintained it, how it’s little gears would be clicking right now, tracking his form and calculating the shot. He’d damned himself though his own diligence, raising and caring for a monster that even now was working out how best to kill him.

He neared the boundary fence, avoiding the bodies of several runners despite the near total gloom. They lay in silence, like mounds of white cloth mired with darker patches. The barrier ahead looked deceptively easy to climb, its horizontal wires neatly spaced, as if to allow purchase for hands and feet. It was all part of the theatre. Give the quarry a hint of escape, and they would struggle till the very end, adding to the thrill for the shooter. Even if he could get across, nothing lay on the other side, for he could no more survive in wilderness than from a gunshot wound to the head. Death lay on either side of the dividing line.

He turned and calmly sat down on the grass, accepting his fate in this world. Admiring the last of the sunset, he picked out the silhouettes of distant peaks, their names as familiar to him as his own. Stars peaked out overhead, like a scattering of silver dust across a pile of darkest blue.

Another star flashed for the briefest moment below him. Noise followed too, a sharp crack that leaped over the land towards him, but by the time it reached the fence, he had long since gone, leaving only another mound upon the ancient hillside.