Flower of Scotland 2 by William Meikle Read Free Book Online

held such clout over us that we depended on him for almost everything from employment to food. As it was the tent was in uproar until he fired another shot over our heads.
    "Go home," he shouted. "All of you. And I want you all at work as usual on the morrow."
    We went, with the sound of the gunshot ringing in our ears.
    For the rest of the evening I thought of little but the sound of the fiddle and the tune that had seemed both so strange yet so familiar. The air played in my head even after I lay down abed. So when I heard the strain of a fiddle starting up, I was unsure for long seconds whether I was awake or asleep.
    But this was no pastoral tune. Yes, it spoke of the auld country, but now it held a martial air that spoke of battles against tyranny, of blood feuds and scores settled. The auld country called… and we answered.
    When I walked out into the street I found all of my neighbours already there. We followed the sound of the fiddle, dancing to its tune all the way to the small cemetery at the rear of the church.
    As we shuffled into the hallowed ground the tune finally faltered and fell silent. I was first on the scene, which is why it has fallen on me to relate this tale. The sight I saw will be forever etched on my memory.
    It was obvious that Malone had started to dig an unmarked grave for his victim. A shovel sat on the ground beside a pile of disturbed earth. Two bodies lay there. The Scotsman was still just as dead, the red hole gaping at his neck. But he had a broad smile on his face.
    The reason for the smile was also obvious.
    The mine-owner Malone lay beside him, a black tongue lolling from a wet mouth. He had been garrotted… almost beheaded.
    Two fiddle strings were wrapped tight around his neck.
    　
~-oO0Oo-~ 　
The World of Illusion
    Tony Dickie was late. It had been his turn to clean the blackboard and, out of spite he was sure, Miss Bland had been using the red chalk - the kind which was impossible to remove from the board or from your hands no matter how hard you scrubbed either of them.
    Late for his big scene. He’d never hear the end of it if he didn’t provide the promised trick. The one he’d learned the day before. He ran wildly down the long empty corridor, hands slapping on the walls for balance, and slammed heavily into Tom Duncan, his maths teacher and the scourge of Tony’s young life. Tony winced, expecting the usual verbal lashing and cuff around the ear. Instead the teacher merely grunted and moved aside to let him pass. Saying a silent prayer for his good luck he burst into the boiler room, a bundle of flailing arms and legs.
    They were all waiting, silent.
    Almost falling down the stairs he was carried by momentum into the centre of the small circle of seven.
    "Sorry…I…I had to clean the blackboard and…"
    He was always apologising recently - apologising for getting good results in exams, apologising for having two left feet when it came to playing football, but most of all apologising for being late.
    Football was the worst though. There they would be, all lined up against the wall, peeling off as their names were called until only one or two were left. Tony was always one of those who were left.
    "Oh all right, we’ll have Dickie," a voice would say, "He can always go in goal."
    And there he would stand, cold seeping into his hands until finally, dismayingly, a horde of screaming bodies would descend on him, herding the ball in front. He tried, he always did, but the ball always slipped out of his hands at the vital moment and he was always left crying.
    But magic, ah yes, magic was a different story.
    He noticed that they were all waiting for him.
    "OK. Just get on with it. Do we have to do anything?"
    This came from Isobel, his first ever object of desire, she of the jet black hair and baby blue eyes. He blushed every time he had to speak to her and this little demonstration of his ‘magic’ was primarily for her benefit.
    "I hope somebody brought the chairs?" he