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Prologue
Glendarron Estate, Scotland
December 23
It was goingto be the first Christmas without his da.
Hamish trudged through the snow, hunching his back against the wind.
What had Da once said?
Hamish, laddie, if ye don’t like the weather in the Highlands, all ye need do is wait five minutes.
And Da was right. The morning had dawned clear and bright, but by the time Hamish had crept out of Ma’s cottage, storm clouds laden with snow hung low in the sky, the purple hue foretelling the storm which now clung to the mountainside.
The wind howled as flakes of snow swirled round him.
Or was it the Beastie?
Davie and James had teased him about the monster rumored to prowl the slopes, devouring the unwary.
The Beast of Beinn Mo Chridhe.
Nine feet tall, they said—with thick, black fur, red eyes, and teeth the size of claymores. The image of the Beastie always sent shivers through Hamish, and his friends laughed at him.
Or they used to.
Hamish never saw his friends now. Not since the day he’d returned from school to see Ma sitting, mute and wide-eyed by the cold, empty fireplace, the baby screaming in the corner, while the ghillie stood beside her and told Hamish that Da had been killed on the mountain.
Perhaps that was why Hamish had wandered onto the mountain today—despite the Beastie and the strapping he’d get from Ma. He wanted to be close to Da.
Now Da was gone, Hamish was supposed to be the man of the family, taking care of Ma and wee Rhona. But he’d failed. Each night he waited for Da to return, hoping it was all a game, like the haggis hunt. But each night, Ma sat in her chair, crying, baby Rhona whimpering as she clung to her breast. The ghillie came to help, but each time, Ma sent him away until he came no more.
Nobody came anymore—not even Davie and James.
What would his friends be doing this Christmas? Would their homes be filled with warmth and laughter—like Hamish’s home had been last Christmas when Da had promised to take him on a haggis hunt on Hogmanay? But now Hamish was grown up, he knew that the haggis hunt was a game—a myth, like the Yule King. A silly story for children—that Davie and James still believed because they’d not grown up yet.
But Hamish didn’t want to be grown up.
If only Da would come back, then he could be a boy again—go to school with his friends—play games, hunt haggis.
And, most of all, he wanted to read again—the books at school with the crackly pages which smelled of leather and peat—and run his fingers along the bumpy spines to trace the words.
He thrust his hands into his pockets and pushed forward. Snow obscured the route to the summit, but Hamish had scaled the mountain enough times to know it by heart. He could climb Beinn Mo Chridhe with his eyes shut.
But perhaps he should turn back. Ma would worry if he was out too long.
Poor Ma—she couldn’t help being sad. But there was nothing he could do, no matter how hard he tried. Sometimes, when he woke in the middle of the night to hear her crying, he’d creep into her bed, and she’d cling to him, whispering how much she loved him and what a brave, strong man he was going to be. In those quiet moments at night, her tender words of love swelled his heart as he caught a glimpse of the loving, merry Ma he’d known before.
Another howl—and Hamish froze as icy fingers caressed the back of his neck. He looked up, and a dark shape rose up before him.
The Beastie…
He let out a cry and fled, his feet slipping on the path. A voice howled behind him, and he increased the pace.
“Da!” he cried. “Help me!”
But his voice died in the wind.
