The Medusa Shield

By Mike Herd

At the height of the hottest summer on record, a young boy's life changes dramatically after discovering an old painting in a country farm sale. He finds himself being led along a mystical path that started five hundred years before. The dangers that lie ahead are not imaginary but very real.

'The face began to dissolve and as the features of the old man's face disappeared, new details were emerging; hair gave way to skin, skin to bony skull and then to brain. Scott woke up sweating, got out of bed and pulled back the curtains. Wind rattled the sash windows and the street lamp threw leafy shadows from a silver birch that fluttered and danced on his bedspread. A dog barked in the distance. Scott found his sketch book and sat there surrounded by movement. He drew quickly in case the haunting face would leave his memory before it was finished but there was no danger of that, he would never forget the face.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Herd
• Release date: Aug 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386926191

Book preview

The Medusa Shield

Mike Herd

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Archibald Scott Dunbar tiptoed along the pavement with his leather school-bag half way down his arms trying not to step on the lines between the flagstones. He was so preoccupied with his balancing act that he didn’t notice how still the air was until he heard an approaching rumble of thunder. He looked up at the dark clouds gathering above the lone scarecrow in a field of barley. There was another growl from the heavens accompanied by a flash of light. The elements had never held any fear for Scott; on the contrary, he revelled in awe of its power. It was wild, untameable, the opposite of every mortal thing that he had known in his near eleven year life. A synchronous bang and flash signalled it was very close. He felt a charge building up in the air and his hair began to rise with the static energy. Taking off his school-bag he raised it above his head. The metal buckles started ringing and vibrating. Scott threw it away and flung himself to the ground just as there was another louder, almighty resonant bang and the air lit up for what it seemed like an eternity. It was the brightest light he had ever seen. There was a singeing smell and smoke rose from his satchel. He turned over and watched the dark boiling clouds above as if in a witch’s cauldron. A silent brilliant lightening flash blinded him, forcing him to close and shield his eyes with his arms. The lightning and thunder separated as the storm moved on and then as the rain started, gently at first, Scott opened his eyes. The flash had closed down his pupils to such an extent that it took seconds for his sight to recover and by then the rain was steadily falling. He stood up and grabbing his still smoking satchel that saved his life, held it over his head and ran home in the heavy rain carrying his badge of courage aloft with pride. 

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James, Scott’s father had said nothing when he came home wet and by then the only evidence of a lightning strike were burn marks where the buckles had been on his satchel. Scott didn’t want to explain in case he got into trouble. Instead his father told him to have a bath and change his clothes after which his tea was waiting on the kitchen table.

That night it was so humid that Scott couldn’t sleep. Even with the head of his bed pulled nearer to the wide open dormer window, it still seemed airless. He lay on his front looking out at the gloom unable to see the cluster of houses that made up Rockburn village in the distance. Only the tall church spire marked its location. Ripples of silent light in the dark clouds on the horizon fascinated him. Normally Scott would have read a book until his eyes tired but he had finished all five borrowed from the travelling library, his limit for the week. He would have to wait until Monday before he could borrow more. It would be true to say that he was learning more from books than school. The light show was continuing with the odd distant rumble. He wondered how many different kinds of lightning there were as sheet lightning lit up a whole cloud followed by the occasional fork lightning. It was mostly white but would sometimes be an orange jagged flash.

What would happen if lightning hit the church spire he mused, he wouldn’t have to suffer the boring sermons on Sunday from Reverend MacKay. He smiled at the thought staring intensely at the spire, willing a bolt to strike but the storm seemed to be moving away. It would soon be the summer holidays but not for him, there was always plenty to do on the farm and his father kept him busy. Scott’s thoughts turned to his mother. James never talked about her and so the boy had stopped asking him where she was and why it was that everybody else had a mother and he didn’t. All his father would say was that he was too young to understand and he would explain it all when he was older. Scott could barely remember her and the realisation that his memories of her were fading brought a lump to his throat. He turned over and reached for the switch, lighting the green novelty snake lamp rising from its coiled tail, with a small globe coming out of its mouth. He picked up the bible from the window shelf and raising his knees propped it against them. It wasn’t God’s fault that the messenger and the message were boring. He opened the bible randomly and thought about all the miracles that Jesus had made, walking on water, feeding the multitude, turning water into wine. Was it heretical for him to question whether these fantastic things could ever have happened? Scott’s grasp of Greek mythology was limited but could the writer of the Bible have felt compelled to compete or was there an underlying message waiting to be translated? The questions defeated him and just as he closed the Bible a very loud bang shook the house accompanied by a brilliant flash of energy. The Bible flew out of his hand and exactly at the same time, his lamp went out. 

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The Meikleson’s are selling up, said James buttering a piece of toast.

Scott was toying with his porridge. Sammy blew up last night.

I feel for them, it’s not going to be easy leaving all their friends not to mention adapting to city life. James shook his head.

Dad, I was reading the Bible when he blew up.

Tam’s health is not good. I think they feel more secure living closer to Raigmore Hospital.

Scott sighed. When I closed the Bible there was a loud bang and Sammy went out.

Who, asked James?

My snake lamp, I thought the house was going to explode.

Yes the storm was very close, anyway there’s going to be a farm sale on Saturday.

Scott grimaced. I’m not feeling well.

Why what’s wrong? said James coughing and clearing his throat.

I think I’m getting the flu.

Well the fresh air will help, what happened to your school bag?

Is that the time? asked Scott grabbing a piece of toast. Have to rush, don’t want the strap from Nebbie. He picked up his satchel. Bye.

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Rockburn Primary School stood at the far end of the seaboard village that nestled around a natural bay on the Black Isle in the Highlands of Scotland. The intention had always been that its use would be temporary but somehow, someone, somewhere in the Council had forgotten about it and in June 1976 it was still in use. Cheaply built in the late 19th century the corrugated iron clad building was lacking in basic insulation and did nothing to shield its occupants from the exceptional heat wave, the hottest since records began. Even having the school door open along with those windows that could, the single classroom was like an oven. Tongue and groove pitch pine vertical slats lined the interior giving little protection from the heat. The wood was painted maroon up to the plain Dado and above, a sickly cream colour. The floor was also pitch pine, bare, unvarnished and stained with ink as were the desks. Tired red-faced pupils filled the six rows of six desks with an uncharacteristic silence. Hung from a picture rail on the back wall was a yellowing Navy League map of the world showing what used to be the British Empire marked in red. It was flanked by two other maps, Scotland and Britain. Underneath the former, right in the corner at his desk sat Scott. He was next to one of the large sash windows that could open a little. Warped frames restricted the sliding movement leaving a small gap at the bottom. He finished the warm milk, put the empty bottle with the straw in the crate behind him and leaned forward resting his hot freckled cheek on the desk near the opening.

Nebbie or more correctly Mistress MacNab earned her nickname solely upon the size of her remarkably large nose and perched on it was a pair of remarkably small round reading spectacles. A simple look over those glasses at the class would be enough to quell any noise. She sat on a high stool behind a raised Victorian desk marking homework next to the open door. Hanging from a nail on her desk was the strap, a thick leather thong that could inflict pain upon any unfortunate miscreant. Almost everyone, or at least every boy, had been belted with the strap at some time or other, usually for trivial misdemeanours. But with a class of thirty six, order and discipline were paramount. Behind her was a shelved, glazed cabinet stuffed with all manner of books and objects collected from travels abroad. Above the door ticked a large round clock. Scott always thought that it was an intentionally cruel place to have a clock where it would accentuate the slow passing of time. To the left of the door was an earthenware sink and next to it a wood burning cooking stove no longer in use. Below lay lines of shoes that Nebbie had insisted they took off after several children had come in with melted tar stuck to the soles. Scott smiled as he recalled his father frying an egg on the bonnet of the old Landrover just to see if he could.

Nebbie got off the stool holding a sheaf of papers and walked slowly between the first row of desks dropping a page on each one, waited for a brief response then moved on to the next desk. The class had been asked to draw something familiar, something that they would see every day, for homework. It was a wide enough brief and these were the results. Low marks out of ten within a circle drawn in red on the page revealed that artistic talent was scarce. A generous four or five was about the norm until she stopped at Scott’s desk and carefully placed the paper down.

Scott, I am intrigued. Not about the quality of the drawing because there is none or composition or balance for that matter but maybe you can help me out. What exactly is it?

Nebbie never shortened her words by joining them together. Scott looked at the image and saw it had scored a meagre three.

I only had yellow and black Mistress MacNab.

I can see that, she said stiffly.

The brush strokes were very loose and going in all different directions.

It was windy, he explained limply.

Rising up out of what could have been a horizon was something loosely resembling a tree with only two branches and a flattened top. The branches had little black splodges on them.

It’s a scarecrow, he added.

And what are these? she asked pointing to the inky marks.

They’re rooks and Jackdaws. It’s not scaring them off you see they’re perching on it.

Nebbie smiled inside, it wouldn’t do to show her real feelings. There was actually something worthwhile about it now he had described what it was meant to be, naïve...yes it certainly was but there was a lack of self-consciousness, a carefree daub that had some merit. Without explanation she leaned forward struck out the three and gave him a six. The hours dragged on for so long that Scott thought the school clock had stopped, still it would soon be the weekend.

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The Meikleson’s land was next to Rockburn farm so James and Scott crossed the field, opened a connecting gate and within minutes they were at the steading. It was a typical farm auction. The ‘roup’ lots consisted of what was left after generations of Meikleson’s had farmed the land and with the death of their only son, a journalist who died while covering a distant war, it was time for Mr and Mrs Meikleson to retire and sell up. The farming community came, not for a bargain though some may have done, but to bid on rusty implements and out of date equipment, a harvester that needed attention, old furniture with horse-hair sticking out, a large kitchen table and crockery. In short, there was nothing of any great apparent value, but the buyers were there because they wanted to send close friends off with a tidy sum for their twilight years in retirement. It was an act of community togetherness that acknowledged there but for the grace of God go I. None of the farmers at the roup were particularly well off and that didn’t matter because it was simply the right thing to do. It would have been too painful for the Meikleson’s to attend the auction. Seeing personal possessions go would have been unbearable so instead, they went to the pictures in Dingwall. The crowd gathered in the old steading where the auction was to take place and viewed the lots. Attics and out houses, garages and sheds had been cleared ready for the sale.

Walking by a line of implements carefully laid out on the grass, Scott ignored his fathers’ hand, he was getting too old for that. He hated being dragged round these sales. He questioned the need to add even more rubbish to the growing collection of knick-knacks, bric-a-brac, items of indeterminate use, ornaments and garden furniture that parasitised space at home. His eyes went up to the sky as his father examined in minute detail a faded yellow rusting, early twentieth century horse drawn plough.

Dad let’s go home now I’m bored? Scott was pulling at his father’s sleeve.

That’s a beauty it’ll look good in the garden, he said, ignoring his son’s request.

Please?

James Dunbar was an older father in his early fifties. His face was lined and had age spots from working outside all his life. The hand that touched the hard steel was strong and calloused. His hair was thinning and turning grey and he prided himself in not needing spectacles...just yet.

Grandpa used one of these in his early years, he had a Clydesdale called Billy. He loved the horse kept him long after he got the tractor. That’s how I learned to plough...with that old tractor. It wasn’t very reliable though and occasionally we had to use Billy.

Scott had heard all this before adding frustration to his boredom. He took off the baseball cap revealing his long curly light brown hair that covered his ears and hid the collar of his checked shirt. He was not like his father, preferring to read books than play games or football. That was his escape reading other peoples thoughts on a page. They left the plough and moved on. Scott groaned as his father stopped at an old baler but he kept walking below a line of pictures hanging from a horizontal wire. Looking up, he saw faded copper and steel engravings, a modern print of the green lady, an amateur drawing of a farmhouse and a couple of old art deco mirrors arranged in no particular order but there was something that caught his eye. It was a circular oil painting covered in dirt with what seemed to be yellowing varnish stained over time with cigarette smoke, or perhaps it had been hanging above a mantelpiece over a peat fire. As he walked, he felt a brown stained eye follow him. He stopped a little unnerved and retraced his steps. Yes it was definitely following him. He looked around but nobody was paying any attention including his father, busy talking to someone about the baler.

Scott wanted a closer look and clearing a space climbed on to the trestle table but it was still not high enough. He picked up a simple lightweight bentwood chair with a cane seat, put it on the table and climbed on it. The flimsy chair wobbled unsteadily as he drew himself up to the canvas. Only a matter of inches away he was a lot closer to it than perhaps he would have chosen. The chair wobbled again and Scott pitched forward steadying himself by holding onto the picture. His cheek momentarily touched the surface of the painting. It was dark and smelly and in a terrible condition. He looked around and still nobody was watching. He spat at the eye and rubbed it with his finger and just at the same time a shaft of sunlight from above raked across it. The extraordinary lifelike eye was balefully staring out from the painting and as he recoiled from the image he almost fell off the chair. He steadied himself again and looked at it more closely. The yellowy white of the wide open brown eye portrayed intense fear and alarm. Clouds covered the sun and with the spit drying and the light fading the painting returned to its former inscrutability. Scott put both hands on the frame and pressed his cheek against the wooden panel as if this would answer the questions forming in his mind. This was a painting of someone in abject horror, why would anyone want to paint it? He closed his eyes. His breathing was so shallow it had almost stopped. All he could hear was the whooshing of blood in his veins, even background sounds of the crowd were muted.

Scott! What are you doing up there?

The boy lost his balance and felt the chair go beneath him falling into his father’s arms.

Are you ok, you look flushed?

Dad, he said wriggling from his father’s grasp and picking up the baseball cap. Could you buy that for me?

What, that painting? I can’t even see what the subject is, it’s so dirty.

I think it’s a portrait.

A portrait, who of? asked James.

I don’t know I think it could be a pirate...please?

A pirate, said his father.

James looked at his son. He never asked for much, from being desperate to leave, to wanting to stay and buy a painting was unusual to say the least. As far as he knew Scott had no interest in art before or pirates for that matter. Perhaps he didn’t really know his son that well. Scott was tugging at his hand and there was a desperate look in his eyes.

No, he coughed.

Scott’s face crumpled. He looked back at the painting and took his father’s hand.

Please?

The sale started with the livestock. Hens in cages, ducks and geese circled, guided by a small boy with a cane, sheep, some goats and then cattle. Bidding was brisk as the auctioneer’s gavel, in this case a stout riding crop, whacked against the makeshift rostrum signalling another sale. Scott never understood what the auctioneer was saying at any of the sales he had been to and this was no different. The farm implements were next. Scott let go of his father’s hand and went to the back of the crowd. He hopped on to an old red Leyland tractor and climbing up the hydraulic frame, jumped into the bucket that was held aloft. Under the riding crop hammer an old combine that hadn’t worked from one harvest to the next sold, the baler, the old plough that James had liked but made no attempt to bid on and as there were no reserves on anything, everything went. The garden furniture was next with a stone sundial, a pair of early terracotta urns, a circular wrought iron tree bench, an ornamental bird bath and some garden gnomes. Comparisons to the porters were made much to the amusement of the crowd. Scott glanced down at his father who merely looked on with his hands in his pockets.

It was getting closer to the painting now and his father looked back into the crowd searching for his son unaware he was almost above him. The furniture came and went as did the crockery. It was nearing the end of the sale when the porter carrying a long shepherd’s crook pointed at the first of the prints. One by one they were sold and then came the penultimate lot a 1930’s art deco mirror. Scott noticed that people were leaving. The shepherd’s crook pointed at the painting. Scott’s heart was thumping as he held his breath. His father still had his hands in his pockets. The auctioneer looked around for a bid but there was nothing forthcoming. It seemed like an eternity for Scott as his father stood passively watching. There was a wave of a stick at the front of the crowd for a bid at the starting price of three pounds. The auctioneer asked for five. Scott waved at him from the raised bucket. The auctioneer smiled at him and looking around for the last time with his riding crop held high he smacked the rostrum hard and pointed at the boy. All eyes turned and looked up at Scott who held his arms outstretched and beamed from ear to ear as if his team had just scored a goal. Below, someone started the tractor engine and gently lowered the bucket with the triumphant boy to the ground. His father glared at him then turned and walked over to join the queue of people waiting to pay the clerk at a table.

Dad, said Scott excitedly catching his father’s hand. 

Ok let’s have it, said James.

What?

Five pounds, you made the winning bid.

Come on Dad I don’t have five pounds.

James shook his head. Oh well I’ll have to tell them you made a mistake.

They reached the clerk’s table while Scott hung on to his father’s arm. He opened his wallet and took out a five pound note and handed it over.

You’ll work for this Scott, ok?

Scott nodded and beamed from ear to ear as a porter handed the painting to him. They left the now empty steading and headed home crossing the field towards the farmhouse.

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Daisy MacKay had to sit right at the front sharing a pew with her mother in a show of family support. Her father Reverend MacKay was singing all things bright and beautiful with unrestrained gusto adding to her discomfort. She was stultifyingly bored and while singing the hymn, paused to yawn with her mouth closed. There had been many teenage rows over her attendance but now she accepted her fate safe in the knowledge that sometime soon she would be off to university. It wasn’t that she disliked singing it was his sermons that made her wish the ground would open up and swallow her. Their familiarity had followed her over the years from her first memory of attending church and they got worse with the telling. Oblivious, Reverend MacKay gave full vent. He was very particular about particular things like attending church and maintaining the dignity of his office and thankfully, less so about mostly everything else. The congregation sat down and Daisy held her hands nervously clasped together on her lap tightening the grip in expectation.

Today I would like to talk about compassion. In a cell a prisoner sits with head in hands. Why is he there, what is his crime? We all take our freedom for granted unable to understand in our comfortable lives what it is like to be incarcerated. We also blindly take for granted our faith without question. Is it bad to question faith and if so why should it be? Those who do not wish their faith to be questioned fear the answer. For it is in the questioning that there is a renewal of the faith as the answer will always be the same. The prisoner could have been Bertrand Russell who was jailed for being a pacifist, Nelson Mandela locked up for years on Robben Island or Mahatma Gandhi, arrested and sent to jail thirteen times. Or indeed a common criminal, but what separates them? Where is the judgement that decrees who is wrongfully or rightfully held as prisoner. Sometimes we can only make true judgements retrospectively. Faith is not blind, it is all seeing. It is an affirmation of a fundamental truth that there is good in all of us as long as we have the capacity to look for it. Compassion is a little used word in the modern world but what it means is that a homeless man who is blamelessly sleeping on the street might find a bed for the night. Compassion is helping others to help themselves. Compassion without judgement is true compassion. There is no trade off and no benefit to the compassionate, it is unconditional. So does that mean altruism is the pinnacle of true compassion? I don’t know but without altruism there is no compassion. Love and compassion are companions on a journey that never ends. It is the glue that binds people and communities together and it is to be found in the strangest places. A homeless poor man sitting on a pavement in a city found a wallet with a thousand pounds in it. What did he do? What would you do? He took it to a police station and handed it in. He had nothing and he handed over what would have been a fortune for him to the police. The rich man who lost the wallet was contacted by the police. He scoured the city looking for the poor man in vain but he didn’t give up and eventually there he was sitting on a flattened cardboard box under an archway. He took the man home, fed him and offered him a bed until he could find somewhere to stay. Which one showed compassion? They both did of course but the rich man learned compassion and humility from the poor man. There is a lesson in that for all of us. Many people would have passed him by in the street looking the other way not wishing to see an impoverished poor homeless man. But the man with nothing had something greater than wealth, he had compassion.

Daisy uncrossed her legs uncomfortably. Sometimes she wasn’t quite sure what her father was going to say next. This time he was straying from the sermon she knew off by heart.

I have a confession to make, he said.

Daisy looked in alarm at her mother who ignored her. This was way off script.

I don’t like something that many people would find an anathema. It’s chocolate, I don’t care for it. But that does not mean I despise people who do. It’s called tolerance because tolerance love and compassion go hand in hand and while I will accept that there will be many chocoholics that are addicted to its sweetness it’s not for me.

Daisy breathed a sigh of relief and inwardly yawned for the umpteenth time. She should be sleeping in her warm bed after the late Saturday night dance in the village hall. The cobbled together quartet of piano, accordion, drums and guitar hardly paused for a break all night rolling out the old favourites. The dashing white sergeant, strip the willow and eighth-some reels tumbled after each other and being in great