| CHAPTER 1 |
Chapter 1
Diving Into History
Hiram Kawalski never believed in extra terrestrials, devils, demons, ghosts, goblins, or any of that ilk, until … Well … it wasn’t an ‘until’, you could say it was more of a gradual conversion, a slow but sure unveiling of the truth. Hiram had always been a skeptic of just about everything that is not presented as pure black and white or simplistically straightforward. Not just UFO’s and such, but everything—everything in life. At an early age, he reasoned that with diligent investigation and an open mind, there would always be a logical explanation that followed—you just had to dig deep enough. Invariably hocus-pocus mysteries were the work of someone with an axe to grind, such as writing a book, or they were the leader of some way-out group or cult, or they’re just plain crazy. At least to Hiram, this is how it always appeared.
“You only have to think about it,” he would say. “Like, why would an intelligent alien living on a perfectly good world spend a fortune to come and risk its life on Earth? Exactly, they would not. Then of course there are ghosts and stuff, which obviously are the invention of a weak or confused mind. There are no ghosts, or spirits, things invisible do not exist. If there were such things, then the graveyards would be crowded, but they are not. Are they?”
Hammy, as Hiram Kawalski is known to his friends, was born in Hamilton, Ontario, Canada. At an early age, he worked for a tabloid in Toronto, that’s also in Canada. He commuted the forty-five miles each way, every day, to and from work. Eventually, he moved to bigger things—he got a job in the USA. Same kind of thing, but as a low life reporter’s assistant. It was in this job he learned to lie and cheat and invent newsworthy copy.
Inevitably, Hammy got fired and to completely turn over a new leaf, he moved to England. At least there he could get a clean, new start. As very few Englishmen can tell the difference between American and Canadian accents, he constantly had to reinforce his birthright. However, a person does as a person is. The blacksmith could not take up needlepoint just as the leopard was unable to change its spots, so condemned by the rut of life he found a job at a magazine in the city of Leicester. The magazine called itself ‘Technowonder’. It was designed to appeal to the borderline crowd in pseudo-science. He would report on ufology and any technical marvel, whether it worked or not.
At the age of 35 and after five years of diligent reporting on the technical nether regions of science, he was promoted to leading reporter. His junior was a female—Barbara Danials a 32-year-old brown haired blue-eyed beauty. Barbara stood five foot six, only three inches shorter than Hiram. Life was dull for a non-believer, and Hammy felt that the stories he worked on were juvenile and totally unfulfilling.
For excitement and a slight distraction, Hiram skydived as often as he could. He belonged to the Green Devils parachute club, located on an old R.A.F. base just outside of town. It was during one of these excursions that Hiram Kawalski’s life began its inevitable and terrifying change. It was the weekend of the August bank holiday in 1996 when the demons of the past left their calling card.
On Saturday, the jump was from such a height that Scotland looked like a map far below. Hiram had jumped nineteen times before, but this would be the first descent over foreign territory—so to speak. Communication was difficult. To be heard, a person had to shout over the drone of the plane’s engines and the roar from the open door. As a writer, Hammy dived to break the monotony of city life. The exhilaration of the impending danger lifted his doldrums to a peak of excitement.
This jump was over the Lammermuir Hills, with the landing on the Dunbar Common. Everybody member of the club knew the area as they had studied the maps. Half the fun was getting lost once you hit the ground anyway. Hiram and the other skydivers were to meet at the Seven Suitors Arms, an ancient pub opposite to an even older church, in the village of Craig. The village being right in the middle of the Dunbar Common on the only road through the area.
Suddenly, the warning light came on, a quick check of the rigging, then line-up for the off. One by one, the jumpmaster signalled them. One by one, they dived into the open sky. Not a cloud to be seen, which for Scotland was probably a first.
Hiram experience euphoria with the elements; sometimes he felt that he would not open the shoot, just to undergo the experience of colliding with mother Earth. Though, he always pulled the rip in the nick of time. Fear hardly entered into it, until it was obvious the shoot had to be opened, then a rush of adrenaline, almost a panic as the last few seconds flashed past. With a roar, the small parasol opened, jerking him back to sensibility.
It wasn’t that writing for a monthly magazine was all that bad. It was just the boring existence in the City of Leicester needed a boost every now and again. Hammy excelled at skydiving, and particularly the delayed jump. The old church was not far away as he made contact with terra firma. The aged blue bus stood parked outside the pub. Collecting up his canopy, he walked the last few hundred yards to Craig.
The ancient village would be doubled in population once all the jumpers arrived. There was only the church and its cemetery on the one side of the road, with a lane that ran into the distance alongside it. On the other side of the thoroughfare lay the village, such as it was—the pub, one small store and five houses. Two or three of the jumpers were already at the pub, with beer in their hands.
Hammy put his kit in the bus, then removing his goggles, jumpsuit, and harness. He took his normal glasses from his case and put them on. He used the driver’s rearview mirror to comb his ample dark brown hair. For thirty-five years of age he was good-looking, fairly muscular and his deep blue eyes sparkled almost black.
Jim, one of his jumping buddies, welcomed him off the bus. “Come on, you old fart, you're wasting good drinking time,” he said jokingly.
The two walked over and sat at one of the several outdoor tables. It was a fine and warm day. A sweet young girl in her early twenties approached them. “Do you wish to eat, sirs, or just a wee dram from the bar?”
“I’d like a beer, a nice cold bitter,” Hiram said.
Jim smiled. “Same for me,”
“Have yah, never heard of please or thank yah,” she said haughtily.
“I’m sorry,” Hiram said. “Please, and thank you.”
She walked off, and soon returned with a drink for each of them. “Here’s your drinks,” she said, slamming them on the table.
“How much?” Jim asked.
“I understand it’s a collective tab, it’ll be paid by one man from your club.”
“Well, thank you,” Hiram smiled. “Why is that church the only thing on that side of the road?”
The girl grinned. “Because all the land over there is either church land or the Laird’s.”
“Oh,” Hiram said. “What Lord would that be?”
“’Tis the Laird o’ Craigai. You should go and look in there. The vicar’s always about.”
“What d’you think?” Hiram said to Jim.
“I’m not a church-goer. You go take a look. I’m not interested.”
The journalistic instinct in Hiram made him curious of almost everything. He had already made up his mind that he would take a look at the church and its cemetery. After a couple of pints and while every one else was enjoying the hospitality of the pub, he walked across the road to the churchyard.
Not far from the side entrance to the building was a grave that took Hiram’s attention. It had fresh flowers on it, yet the date was 1540. And there was no name. It said, “MORA IGNIS 1540.” Hammy thought that it may have been the grave of someone called Mora Ignis. There was no other inscription, only a skull and crossbones.
The interior of the church seemed surprisingly bright. The columns and arches were very tall. The decor was an interesting shade of pale blue, except for some unusual terra-cotta mouldings that were in their natural colour. The back wall was windowless and had brass plaques, virtually hundreds of them, all over it.
As Hiram Kawalski read some inscriptions, the vicar came over to him. “Are you interested?” he asked politely.
“Oh certainly. Are they the names of the war dead?”
The vicar smiled. “No, they are the patrons. Are you an American?”
“No, no, I’m Canadian,” he replied. “Who was Mora Ignis?”
Again the vicar smiled. “No one, it is merely a marker.”
“But someone has put flowers on it. It looks like a grave.”
The vicar breathed out audibly. “A silly custom, it is supposed to keep the fire away. Fire, that legend says, came from the piece of the heavens that fell not far from here.”
“Thank you,” Hiram said and continued reading the names on the brass plaques. To him, a patron was someone who visited the local pub. Quite why anyone would be awarded a brass plate for visiting, even if it happened to be a church, did not quite ring true. Then he recognized a couple of the names. “Ah!” he said aloud. “They are all famous people.” He took several flash pictures of the wall.
Satisfied that he had seen enough of the quaint little church, he returned to the pub and took a photograph of the grave on his way. He again sat with his friend.
“So?” Jim said. “What’d yo’ see?”
“Not a lot. There’s a large list of patrons.”
“Oh, yes,” Jim sneered. “People with more money than sense.”
“What do you mean?” Hiram asked.
“Well, a patron is someone who gives money to the church on a regular basis. Or a large donation.”
“Well, there were hundreds of them, including Sir Isaac Newton.”
The young girl passed again with a tray of drinks. “Excuse me, Miss,” Hiram called.
She walked over to him. “Yes sir?”
“Could you kindly bring us a refill?”
“Surely sir.” She marched off to deliver the drinks she had in her hands.
“There was one strange thing,” Hiram continued. “There’s a grave that’s not a grave. It’s dated 1540, and the vicar said it’s to commemorate some fire that fell from the heavens or something.”
Jim smiled. “And you’re a reporter?”
“Well, I wasn’t taking too much notice of it. But I bet the serving girl will know.”
At that moment, Jenny the waitress returned. “Here’s your drinks, sir,” she said, placing the glasses on the table.
“Do you know about the grave over there?” Hiram said. “1540, something about fire from heaven.”
The girl visibly paled. “Ask at the post office,” she snapped and left in a hurry.
“Sounds intriguing,” Jim said. “Shall we ask at the post office?”
Some minutes later, they walked into the village post office, which was merely an extension of the only store in town. The postmaster, an ancient man, sat behind the wire cage. Hiram bought some stamps for his postcards. “Do you know about the grave over there? Something about fire from heaven.”
The old man looked at Hiram in a strange way. “Why?”
“Oh, just curious.”
“Best not to be,” the old man said.
“I just wanted to know why there are flowers on it, and it’s dated 1540.”
“Are you an American?” the postmaster grouched.
“No, I’m a Canadian. The good old British Empire and all that.”
“’Tis the grave of Morag o’ Doom,” the old man said.
“The vicar said it was just a marker.”
“The vicar’s a liar,” the old man said bluntly.
“Oh! Who’s Morag o’ Doom?”
“’Tis just the body of a girl that was murdered in 1540. She was only 15 and was taken by the devil. They do say that she was still smoking when they put her in the grave.”
Hiram and Jim looked at each other in mock surprise. “What was the vicar talking about then?” Hiram asked. “He said something about something falling from heaven.”
The old man took out a large red bandanna and very noisily blew his nose. “The vicar lied. The Church is too full of themselves what with all that money. ’Tis said that a star fell shortly before the girl died. Some blame it for the terrible things that happened.”
“What do you think?” Hiram said.
“I don’t think I just tell what I know. If you want more information, talk to Jock Willox up by Coldingham Bay, ’twas there that it all happened.”
Time was up, the bus horn sounded—a signal that it was about to depart for the next leg of the weekend. Everyone had been booked into a hotel at Berwick-upon-Tweed. The next morning the whole bus load including the bus itself crossed the causeway to Holy Island. Crossing the causeway had to be synchronized with the ocean tide, as it would flood at high tide.
Once settled in the hotel, Hiram phoned Barbara on her mobile as he had promised he would. “Hello,” she said, pleased to hear from him.
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Hello, love, are you having a good time up there?”
“Not too bad, I’ll be glad to get home. I wish you were here. You kinda get sick of all these red neck jumpers.”
“The jump went okay?” she asked, as a routine question.
“Sure, no sweat. You’d like it here, there’s a mystery, right up your alley. It’s at the old church at Craig.”
“Bring me some photos,” she said. “I love you. I’ll see you Monday. I’m at Mother’s right now.”
As always, he talked on the phone for far too long, running up a considerable bill. Barbara and Hiram had been living together for almost five months. They intended to get married, but never actually seemed to get around to it. Barbara disapproved of skydiving, and consequently never went on any of the jump trips.
Little more would have happened on the subject of Morag o’ Doom except for an unusual incidence whilst on Holy Island. Hiram and Jim were sitting on the grass overlooking the sea towards Bamburough. They were eating their fish and chips that they had gotten from the mobile fish shop. A fisherman had just finished burying his anchor in the beach. He walked over to Hiram and Jim. “You’s skydivers?” he asked.
“Yes,” Jim replied.
“Did you jump yesterday over the Lammermuir Hills?”
“Yes,” Jim said again.
The fisherman dropped to his knees so as to be at the same level as Hiram and Jim. “Notice anything about St. Andrew’s Church as you came down?”
“No.”
“They do say that you can see the impression of the devil in the cemetery if you are high enough.”
Hiram took interest in the conversation. “Why?” he asked.
“’Cuz of the girl, Morag.”
“You know the story of Morag o’ Doom?” Hiram asked.
“You an American?” the fisherman inquired enthusiastically.
“No. I am from Canada. Do you know the story of Morag?”
“No, but they do say she was the mistress of the Laird o’ Craigai. And they do say that the Laird o’ Craigai is the devil.”
“Who was this Lord of Craigai?” Hiram asked.
“Well, the Laird o’ Craigai lived in Craigai castle. It is said that he was a very nasty man. He lived in the castle as a hermit. That is until the meteor flashed down from the sky and exploded in the sea quite close to the castle. From then on, the only thing that he ate was virgins.”
“Sounds a very unlikely story,” Jim smirked.
“Noo, ’tis true,” the fisherman said. “Morag was from Coldingham Bay. She was suckered into the castle and the evil Laird cooked her. It was her smoking body that they found and buried at St. Andrew’s. That’s the basis of the legend. But they do say that if you fly over the cemetery, you can see the devil.”
“Well,” Hiram said. “We flew over it, and I don’t remember anyone telling me that they saw the devil.”
The fisherman was disappointed that they had not seen the apparition. “My father saw it, during the war. He was a flyer with the R.A.F. He said he saw it twice.”
“Well, next time I’ll be looking for it.” Hiram said. “Why did they bury her at St. Andrew’s Church instead of the Church at Coldingham Bay?”
“Ah, at that time there was only the abbey and the monks at the Bay. They were the ones that reported the meteor. They wouldn’t have anything to do with the dead girls found in those parts.”
“Dead girls?” Jim said, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh, yes, there were many of them. Not just Morag. She’s only famous because she walked up out of the sea still living.”
“Where did you get all this information?” Hiram said.
“’Tis common knowledge. Anyone from hereabouts will tell you the story of Morag o’ Doom and the Laird o’ Craigai Castle.”
“Where exactly is this castle of Craigai?” Hiram asked.
The fisherman scratched his head for a few seconds. “Well, do you ken where St. Abb’s Head is?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s just a few miles west of St. Abb’s Head. It’s well off the main road. Of course, there is no castle now. It was destroyed by the devil, in a great fireball hundreds of years ago.”
“Well, thanks for the stories,” Hiram said. “It looks as if our party is leaving. Sorry I can’t stay and chat.”
“You’re welcome,” the fisherman said, then stood up. They all shook hands and parted company.
“What’d you think of that lot?” Jim smirked.
“Well, I guess all these remote places have their legends. But it’s obviously fancy. There is no devil. I would guess that the poor kid was murdered by some despot baron, and he blamed the devil, so he didn’t have to take the rap.”
Very little else happened on the trip. The bus made its way slowly back to Leicester on the Monday. Everyone had thoroughly enjoyed the long weekend. Hiram got back to his apartment late on Monday afternoon. Barbara was not at home, which was a bit of a disappointment. She had spent the weekend at her mother’s. By nightfall everyone was home trying to recover from the hectic holiday, including Barbara—who felt pleased that Hiram had returned safe. She hated the skydiving club and always dreaded their outings, thinking that Hiram would be coming home in a wooden box. Tuesday would be just another routine day at the office. Hiram would get his photos developed at a local Drugstore.
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