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“We found several tons of old rubbish under there. Some of it was half-disintegrated. Plastics. Bits of it must have been inside the fishes themselves.” I shake my head at the memory, still angry about what was done here before it was put to a stop. “And that’s just the water.
“The land – we spent years just finding things that had been discarded. As it is, we still have to check regularly. Things get blown across the land from other places – plastic bags, bits of paper, light food packaging.”
“That’s awful,” she says softly. “Well, you’re doing an amazing job. It looks so natural and clean now.”
I look down to catch her looking up at me with admiration. I beam and shadow my arm over her shoulders without actually touching her, encouraging her to look to where I point to our left.
“See that area there with the low bushes? That’s where the biggest herd, with the oldest and biggest stag, tends to spend their time. If we wait a while, they’re likely to appear.”
I frown a little at the thought.
At this time of day, the herd should be here already. It’s unlike them to stray from habit. I don’t think any of the does of the group are pregnant at the moment, so there’s little risk of an unexpected birth somewhere.
Other things could disrupt their movements – a run-in with one of the other herds, for example, or a challenge for leadership of the herd. That would be worrying if it were the case. I feel a lot of admiration for the old stag that heads this herd.
The stag was our main draw when we had groups come through on strictly organized and controlled photography tours. He is a legend in these parts.
There is the other worry that poachers could have come because the size of the old boy’s antlers makes him a very desirable prize.
“What is it?” Alana asks. I look down to realize she must have been studying me as I scanned the horizon for a sign of the herd, worry probably clearly written across my face.
I try to smile but the worry is still there.
“It’s probably nothing,” I say. “It’s just that they’re usually here by now. But they’re probably right over the crest of one of those hills, hidden from view.”
Even having said that, though, I have a terrible feeling in my gut. Something isn’t right here, and it’s way too quiet.
It’s like the whole loch is holding its breath.
Not even the birds, I realize, are making any noise.
Birds don’t sit around silently. Not unless they’re dead. This means they’ve all been scared away, sent flying to another part of the valley.
“Get back in the car,” I say urgently, feeling that gut instinct zeroing in on something new – something deeper. I begin to shepherd Alana back toward the buggy, rushing close behind her with one arm extended to keep her moving.
And then, the first shot rings out across the valley.
It’s a shotgun, unmistakable to my ears. Another follows it, and then a third – and then a sound I know all too well.
It’s the stampeding thunder of many hooves.
I push Alana into the passenger seat just in time as the herd crests over the ridge just below us, clearly frightened and running for their lives, heads thrown back as they gallop at top speed for all they are worth.
I can see the whites of their eyes rolling back into their heads as they strain to keep sight of the poachers behind them as well as run safely across the ground ahead.
I curse and jump into the driver’s seat but then hesitated. I look at Alana.
Can I really drive her right toward potential danger?
“Go!” she shouts as if confused as to why I would even hesitate, which makes up my mind.
The car roars to life, and I aim it in the direction the herd is running from, steering a trajectory that will take us around the danger of the deer and right toward the people with the guns.
CHAPTERSEVEN
Alana
I clutch my seat for support as the buggy races over the uneven ground, jolting me up and down.
