Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

John MacTavish was born in January, on a blisteringly cold night. The labor was hard, the wind howling outside carrying away the cries as his mother fought to bring him into the world. The bright full moon hung high in the sky, looking down upon the small village huddled at the edge of a dark forest. Finally, the wind died down just long enough for the shrill cry of a newborn to pierce through dark night as John came kicking and screaming into the world.

The babe didn't immediately open his eyes and his mother worried. With gentle words, the midwife assured her that some new ones were slow to open their eyes. They just when through quite a trial, just to be born, and some didn't want to see this new realm they had been yanked into. So, the baby was swaddled, fed, and then carefully placed in a basket at his mother's bedside. It was while she slept, after the midwife was gone, and his father tucking his sisters into their own beds, when John's eyes squinted open.

While he wouldn't remember it, being so young, the first thing that John laid eyes on in the world was not his mother, his home, or even the flicker of the warm candle by the bed. No, it was the glowing round object floating in the dark beyond. It seemed so large to one so small. Too new he was to understand what it was he was looking at. Too innocent to the world he'd joined to understand the enormity of the orb outside the window. Yet, he stared at it, eyes shifting to take in the shining and transfixing disk he would one day learn the word for.

The moon, full and bright, glowed in the night sky. Its light allowed shadows to climb and crawl all over the ground below. The dark parts of the world its light didn't touch all the darker. Wisps of grey swept across its lower curve and pin pricks of softer and smaller lights danced around it. The wind once again died down, the trees from the forest calming and settling. Out in the dark, under the light of the moon, a howl echoed in the night.

Where most brand-new babies would startle at such a loud and unknown sound, John merely kept gazing up at the shining hole in the black sky. Another blow of wind kicked up, the silver grey of the clouds moving across to obscure more of the beacon above. Shifting in dissatisfaction, John opens his mouth and lets out an ear-splitting screech. Off in the night, another shattering howl accompanies the child's cry.

---

Every time of year in the Scottish Highlands is enchanting, but the months of spring are some of the most. The world is waking up from the winter and all manner of creatures and plant start to reappear. At four years old, John doesn't have memories, per say, but impressions of spring's past have him equally excited for the coming awakening of the Highlands as the rest of his village. Deer, foxes, and a great number of small furry things will start to emerge from their hides and dens. As the weather shifts from bitingly cold to a more manageable chill, grass and vegetables will again sprout from the ground.

Spring is a time of renewed life, rebirth, and the start of the new. For a young child like John, it's a time of celebration at his freedom. Of sorts at least. Winter had him kept inside much of the season, or huddled up with his siblings as their parents went about the necessary chores of the home and village. With the return of slightly warmer weather and the melting of ice and snow, the children are given leave to wander outside. Friends from other houses that have hardly seen each other for the last few months rush to find one another. It's not long before the village is once again bustling with the labor of the adults repairing from the winter and beginning to prepare for the coming year and the laughter of the young as they run and prance about.

At only a few months past four years of age, John's memories and perceptions of the world around him are still overly bright and sometimes hard to grasp. His father says he has the disposition of a dreamer, never afraid, and always willing to talk to anyone. John is darting around the village's main gathering area, set up today as a market for the residents to share and trade their wares and offerings. His father has the doors to his shop down the road open for folks to pass through with their horses and carts, fixing any metal thing that needs doing. His mother has his two sisters, both older than him, kept close as she shops amongst the produce. Her stomach is growing rounder and John has had enough over the last month of hearing his sisters coo about another baby sibling.

Taking his new freedom to be outside, John trots about the market, not worried about his mother being left behind him or his father still so far ahead. This village is his home, and as his family is fond of saying, he's never met a stranger. At least, until he bumps into a solid column of stone standing in the middle of the road. The stone grunts as John hits it, not so much as moving, and the poor boy falls back on his rear. When he looks up, he finds it's not stone he'd hit, but a person's legs. John looks at the black boots, the black breeches. He follows the line of the figure up and up. Further his eyes travel, like looking up into the sky. The night sky, as the person he'd run into is cloaked in dark fabric and fur.

Upon their shoulders, hanging down over the hulking mass of their back, is a large fur cloak. It's a dark and intense brown that looks almost black. At the top of the wide shoulders is a mane of more fur drawn up over the person's head. John stares, wide eyed, as the solid mass he'd bumped into finally turns. Memory is an odd thing, but a memory of looking into the night sky, gazing at the moon, comes to his mind as he meets the man's eyes far above him.

The man must be a giant, dressed in all dark clothes, and draped in the impressive fur from some equally enormous beast. The hood pulled up over the man's head casts shadows over the being beneath, obscuring his face completely, and all John can see are orbs of shimmering amber staring back at him. The eyes gaze down at him from the shadowed face with a look of dispassionate indifference. It should be scary. It should be intimidating. He should be rushing to his feet and fleeing back to the safety of his mother. Instead, John smiles.

"John! Why ye wee rascal. Wha- oh."

John's mother has rushed up to him, still on his butt in the dirt and smiling up at the giant. The giant, the man, finally looks away from him and over to John's mother.

"A'm s' sorry. He's jus' s' happy t' be free o' the house", John's mother says with a tight smile at the man, "Restless children, ye ken?"

The man just gazes at her, silent and impassive. John pulls himself up from the dirt. Even standing, his head hardly reaches above the giant's waist. He keeps staring up at the man's face, trying to find more features beneath the dark hood.

"Ah, Mr. Riley. Finally come down from the wood, have ye?", comes John's father's voice as he too steps up to their small group now standing in the market.

John feels his father step up to his side, nudging him to his mother. She takes his shoulder and guides him closer, trying to get John to go behind her. He doesn't want to, though. He wants to keep looking at the furry giant.

"Mr. MacTavish", the giant finally says, giving a small nod.

The man's voice is deep and accented funny. He doesn't sound like anyone John remembers meeting in the village before. And while it's clearly the giant that speaks, John can't see any indication that he'd done so. No moving of lips or shifting of a throat. John squirms around his mother and father to once again be looking directly up at the man. Amber eyes drop back to John.

"Ma son, John", John's father introduces, putting a firm hand on John's shoulders, "Please forgive his rudeness."

"It's nothing", the giant says, again without any visible sign that he'd spoken, and his gaze returns to John's father, "I have meat to trade.”

"O'course. Stop by the shop any time, Mr. Riley, and A'll see t' ye."

"My thanks to you", the giant says, inclining his head respectfully, "Good day."

"Good day", John's mother and father say at the same time.

The man turns and as he does his cloak shifts along his sides. It flaps open just enough for John to spot the glint from a sword hilt and a sheathed knife. It's then that John realizes the man's arms have been hidden by the fall of his fur. In the man's hand is a bow, and on his other hip is a quiver filled with short hunting arrows. Just like the rest of the man, there is no skin to see, only the dark covering of his sleeves and the leather of black gloves.

"G'day", John says quickly.

The giant pauses, half turned away. He looks over his shoulder, down and down further at John. Amber eyes seem to gleam from beneath his hood. Without a word, the man fully turns and walks away. Both of Johns parents and his sisters let out sounds like they'd been holding their breath. The two adults whisper to each other for a moment, but it doesn't sound bad. John thinks he hears his father praise the giant for providing meat for those in the village and his mother simply comments that at least he's never shown a sign of being dangerous to the children.

"Ye ken an'thing?", John's oldest sister, Loraine, says, coming up and poking him hard in the back, "Wha' ye doin' runnin' int' tha' man?"

"Didna mean t'", John mutters, watching as the dark figure walks through the crowd, his head and shoulders still far above the other people around him.

"Da says he's the best hunter 'round, apart from Mr. Price", his other sister, Claire, says quietly, "I's why he's so scary."

"He had funny eyes."

---

"Da, how much longer?"

"No’ much, son", John's father laughs softly, "Should see the marker stones soon 'nough."

It was John's first time traveling with his father. He'd thrown a fit to end all when his father had packed his wagon to head to a town a bit more than two days’ travel away. John had argued that he was almost nine now and should be able to join his father on the man's trips. His father was a metal worker, and not all villages had someone such as him. Because of this, the man would pack up some ready-made things and the bare basics he'd need to make items on the road and visit neighboring villages and smaller towns. It was hard work, his father said, traveling and being away from John’s mother and their ever-growing family, but it brought in extra money that allowed them to live a trifle more comfortably.

John and his father had been gone for nearly a week and were on the last leg of their way home. It had been an eye-opening trip. Not many people got to travel so far from their homes and John, even at nine, was aware of that. He'd taken in the sights and sounds of the town that had been their destination. While his father worked on wagons, farm equipment, and horse's feet, John listened to the tales and stories being shared by the men and women that came around. There was the usual gossip that all settlements seemed to be swamped with. Then there were a few elder folks that muttered and whispered of something different, something other.

Superstition and folktales were a part of everyday life in the Highlands. It was just as much a tradition of the land as was the surety of the seasons. John was enthralled by any and all tales of strange and unearthly creatures he could hear. The one whispered the most in the town, was of a massive beast that had killed and slaughtered a herd of sheep that had gotten out of their barn just the week prior. Hunters were still looking for the creature responsible. There were mixed opinions on what it was.

A bear? Perhaps, though rarely did they come so close to settlements. A pack of wolves? A likely candidate, since howls had been heard on the night in question. Though, just as with the bear, wolves didn't normally come so close to people. There was easier food and less danger of people out on the moors and in the woods. A few of the eldest speculators though, spoke of a different creature that could be the cause of the bloodshed. A horror from the old times, a beast that walked in the night, brought out by the moonlight.

Similar tales were told where John was from, but he'd never heard of the beast killing sheep or coming near people. The stories of a monster like that were told in his village, but always as a cautionary tale to keep children from wandering out at night or going too far into the woods or out on the moors alone. There were mentions of deer and other wildlife found ripped to pieces, but never people or farm animals. Perhaps the monster that lived near his home had plenty of food and thus no need to come into the village, whereas the beast in this town didn't get enough from the surrounding area.

As their horse-drawn wagon had made its way back to their village, John noticed his father watching the surrounding hills and woods with careful eyes. It had been a bit disheartening when they'd neither encountered a beast such as the elders spoke of, nor so much as heard a howl from the possible creature.

"There ye go, son", his father’s words pull John from his thoughts, "The barrier stones are just up ahead."

John leans forward, as if that will give him a better view, and spots the four stones only a way up the road. The barrier stones, as his father had told him, were two stones almost six feet tall, on each side of the road. They were a dark grey and stood imposingly, marking the line of territory from the Laird that governed the land they'd been visiting, and the land of the Laird that reigned over where John's family lived. An equal distance between each stone was a wooden pillar of equal height. His father admitted that he didn't know what the pillars were for, but that they were regularly replaced as needed.

John wasn't sure at the time what would require the wood to be replaced, but it hadn't mattered next to his excitement at seeing what was beyond the border of their own land. Returning home now, their village was only a half a day's ride from the stones. As much as he liked traveling with his father, there was something exceptionally tiring about it. John was looking forward to being home. Also too, to having some of his mother’s far superior cooking.

As they draw closer to the stones, John notices something about the wood pillars that he'd not noticed when they'd come through earlier that week. Across each wooden structure were jagged and gouged lines. They started at the top and dug down near a foot. Staring at the lines as the wagon gets even closer, John feels something wiggle in his stomach. Now he could imagine why the pillars would need to be replaced at times. If whatever made those lines in the wood, did so on regular occasion, then over a short time there would be no wood left.

"What did that, Da?", John asks as their wagon passes the stone and wood border.

He turns and leans to look down the side of the wagon at their side of the border stones. The wood on this side of the pillars doesn't appear to be damaged in any way.

"Aye, that would be The Ghost."

The Ghost. Right. John had heard the stories, told to him and all the children in the village. Their parents' warnings to keep them from going out at night or wandering too far from the village alone. Just the same as the stories that he'd been hearing in the other town. A horror from the old times, a beast that walked in the night, brought out by the moonlight. John frowns. Adults were so odd. Some talked like The Ghost, and other beasts like it, were just stories to scare children. While others talked like they were real things to be feared or respected.

"But...Tha's jus' a story. Right, Da?", he asks carefully, not sure exactly where his father landed on the opinion of living mythical creatures.

"Well, son", his father sighs, turning a fond smile down at him briefly, "All stories come from some'ere. They hold a fraction o' truth. The Ghost may no' be real. But after hearing all the stories, be'er t' air on the side o' caution, aye? So as no' t' get caught unawares by a giant monster in the middle o' the moor."

That made sense. The stories of monsters in the woods, over the moors, or in the lochs may be just to scare children and give the adults something to pass the time. But his father was right, better to assume it is real, and be respectful of it. After all, if there was such a thing as a giant beast covered in fur, that howls in the night and hunts over the land, capable of tearing animals to pieces and leaving gouges in hard wood, John imagined it wouldn't appreciate being told it's just a folktale.

---

Night is closing in quickly. The sun is sinking closer to the horizon, the golden glow dipping below the horizon, chased on by the deep blue of the oncoming night sky. It's long been time that John should be making his way back home. However, the air is warm, the breeze so soft and comforting, and there's just something about being where he is that feels so settled. It's his tenth summer and John thinks he's more than capable of finding his way back home in the low light of dusk. Granted, that sensible part of him tries to remind him of the skinning he'll get for coming home late.

Still, John remains sitting on the large boulder that just out from the heather and grass. From here, he can look down at the village he calls home. Lights flicker as folks light their fires and candles, to offset the coming night. Only a short way further, upon a picturesque hill, is the castle of the Laird that rules the surrounding lands. To the left of the village is the forest, its trees stretching tall and far, dark and looming. Farmland dots around the village and the beyond castle, small pastures and crops a distinct patch work over the area. Rolling hills of the moors stretch out around the rest of the land, lifting in places to create random hills, rocky crags, and all with a river cutting through miles away. The main trade road follows the flow of the land, branching off to a smaller trail that leads to John's village and then onward to the castle.

Behind where John sits, continues the wilderness. Overhead, the sky has turned to dusk, the sun all but gone and the last of the light but a smudge of warm yellow over the hills. Tilting his head back, John looks up into the night sky to the oval shape shining among the stars. It'll be the beginning of a full moon cycle soon. John had learned from the elders in the village that the moon followed particular cycles. Around these parts, the moon was actually full for three nights. An excited waxing full moon on the first night, completely full and at its strongest the second, and a calmer tiring moon prepared to start waning on the third; a smaller cycle within the greater pattern of the changing of the night sky.

Humming to himself, John stretches as he smiles up at the moon, only days away from its first night being full. After another minute, he climbs to his feet and heads down the hill towards home. The path is little more than that left by a herd of deer or other wild animals that wander these parts. John is fairly used to it though and traverses it with only a few skips and hops over part of the path that would trip up anyone not used knowledgeable of the way. He's about halfway home, the dark making the air grow chilly, and mist starting to form low over the ground. A sound from behind him has John stopping fast and turning to look over his shoulder.

There's nothing there but the path he'd already traveled and the gently swaying of the grass in the night air. Frowning, John turns to continue on. He only gets a few feet when the sound comes again. Instead of stopping, the boy slows his steps, ears straining to for the noise again. It's quiet. Too quiet. The evening insects had started their nightly serenade when he'd left his lookout rock. Now though, there was nothing. No birds, no insects, hardly even the whisper of the wind. Swallowing, John glances around.

The moon above casts shadows over the moor. The dark spots seem fathomless, while where the light hits look vividly detailed though cast in an eerie silver glow. John looks up to the moon and smiles. There's something like strength and courage he gets from the sphere up above. Still, he also picks up his pace, keen on getting to the safety of the village fires and the warmth of his own home. He's made it several yards when another sound catches his attention. This time though, it's loud and very close. There's something about it that raises the hair on the back of his neck. Jumping at the noise, John stops and looks all around him.

"H'llo?", he asks into the dark, "Someone there?"

The sond again, clearly something big moving among the brush, behind him and to the right. Whatever it is, is coming from the open wild and heading for the village. Heading for him. John swallows again, uncertainty starting to creep in. His family may joke that he's fearless and reckless, but that doesn't mean he's completely stupid. Picking up his pace again, John starts to mentally go through his prayers.

Again, the sound, even closer behind him. Heart pounding, John starts to run. His heart squeezes when the sound of footsteps on rocky path becomes clear, heavy breathing buffeted in time. John gasps and almost trips on a rock. He catches himself, and as he rights himself, he realizes the sounds coming after him have stopped. Anxiously he looks over his shoulder, only to see nothing there. Confusion has him slowing to a stop. Heart still hammering away behind his ribs, John turns to continue on, only to come face to face with a giant furry creature standing in his path.

"Ah!", he lets out a startled half gasp half cry.

The enormous being huffs, and then steps closer. John's about to take a step back, only to realize a moment later who he's looking at.

"Mr. Riley! Christ. Gave me a God damn bloody start."

"Imagine your mother wouldn't approve your language", the man says as John walks up to him.

Smiling, John looks up into amber eyes. They almost seem to glow in the light of the near full moon. At ten years old, John has grown a bit, but he's still laughably smaller than the man before him.

"Gonna tattle on me?", John asks, grinning.

Mr. Riley simply stares at him, dispassionate and uninterested as ever. Over the years, John's figured out that the man looks at everyone like that. There's not much that seems to move the man, neither to anger or to compassion. Effects of the war. Torture. John had heard some of the adults in the village talk about it. He didn't know what war, or what kind of torture, but he gathered that Mr. Riley had been through a great deal in his life.

No one knew how old the man was. According to Johns father, Mr. Riley lived in a house in the woods, where the man's own father had lived and died, and that story had been told to John's father by his father. Mystery and suspicion surrounded Mr. Riley. Whispers that he was the son of a witch mingled with the rumors that he'd been cursed by one. No matter what the truth, the village was too scared, too respectful, of the large man's reputation to chase him away. It certainly helped that Mr. Riley was the best hunter in the area. The meat he brought and traded year-round kept the village booming and saved some of the poorer families in the harder times of the year.

And it's not like Mr. Riley was the only person suspected of being a witch or some such. Mr. Price was a man that lived in the village and whispers followed him almost just as much. The man was older, similar to John's father's age, yet it was said that he'd been that age for many years. Mr. Price was learned in all manner of plants and potions, and was a respected healer among John's village, the Laird's castle, and other surrounding settlements.

He was also a fair horseman, a decent hunter, and could often be found murmuring to plants and animals around him. A witch, some people said, or a druid. John doubted it was true, since Mr. Price was a good friend of his father's. And just like Mr. Riley, no one had the gall to call the man out or chase him from the village. So, any rude or ill mention of both men was kept to mere whispers and speculative gossip.

"No. You're in for it enough, troublemaker, being out alone after dark", Mr. Riley says, deep voice even and calm, pulling John from his thoughts.

Just as always, there's no visible indication that the man has spoken, other than his voice moving smoothly through the air. When John first met Mr. Riley years ago in the market, he'd almost convinced himself that the man had no face at all, no skin and it was shadows that held him together. Now, having learned better, John knows the fabric over the man's face moves minutely with each word said.

A part of whatever the man had been through in his past, war or torture, Mr. Riley kept himself covered at all times. Under the fur hood of his cloak, his head was wrapped in a dark linen fabric, expertly wound and pinned to keep everything but his eyes hidden. The small rectangle of uncovered area on the man's face was also covered, though not with fabric. It was either smudged ash and soot, or perhaps some kind of grease, but even Mr. Riley's eyes were surrounded. The only indication that there was skin beneath was on the rare occasion when rain or sweat caused the dark around the man's eyes to streak or smear. When that happened, the man always seems acutely aware, and hid himself behind his cloak to fix it.

"I's a nice night out. Some o' the older kids said ye can see Brandsuir from the top o' the hill", John says, moving quickly to stay next to Mr. Riley as the man turns and starts to lead the way to the village, "And didnae feel like going back inside home."

Not with his house feeling so crowded lately. With his father, mother, his two older sisters, John himself, his younger sister, and their even younger newborn sister. She was only a few months old, and her crying was enough to drive John mad.

"Hm", is the only response he gets from the man walking with him.

"'Sides. Wanted t' see if A could catch The Ghost."

Mr. Riley tenses next to him.

"The Ghost is a deadly monster. Not some lost pup for you to feed and take home", the man says, voice low and gravelly, like a deep growl that's threatening danger.

"A ken, Mr. Riley. Jus' wanna see if the stories are real."

Mr. Riley may be a dangerous man, but he'd never once scared John. Sure, he was intimidating, due to his size, dress, and clear ability as a hunter, but that was different. At first, John had seen the giant as someone to understand, to pull out from their rough and lonely shell. That was met with hard rebuttal and stinging words. So, he'd simply forced his presence upon the man whenever he came into the village. John started trying to follow the man, usually losing him on the pathways twisting from the village to the forest. He talked at the man whenever he was within earshot.

The older man didn't talk back, hardly looked at him, and seemed wholly irritated and incensed at the young boy trailing after him. Until John was near about seven. John had stalked Mr. Riley to the woods, followed at a distance and hidden himself when the man would check if he was being tailed. As he'd stepped through the tree line, John had felt like he'd entered another realm. The air was like a physical weight around him, the trees blocking out all light from the night sky above, and the mist making it hard to see more than a few feet ahead of him. John had been well and truly lost in only moments.

Freezing to the bone and shivering, John had tried to turn back and go the way he'd come, only to get even more turned around. It was one of the few times in his short life that John had started to feel genuine fear. Just as his heart had started to pound hard and anxious in his chest, eyes growing wet with tears, the hulking form of Mr. Riley had stepped from the shadow of a tree. The man had called him an annoying scut, but had lifted him up in his arms, wrapped his cloak around the trembling boy, and carried him home.

That had been when John learned that Mr. Riley wore fabric over most of his face. The man's large body had been warm, radiating heat to the point that John had been reheated and no longer shivering after only a few moments. Mr. Riley had been wearing a linen shirt that covered high up his neck, tucked into the fabric over his head, and long sleeved that was tucked into his leather gloves. The man's pants were wool, though not scratchy like what John was used to, and his boots were a thick dark leather. Over the sleeves of his forearms, leather gauntlets buckled with iron buckles, two thick belts held a sword, a few knives, and the man's quiver and bow. And of course, there had been the cloak itself.

Thick dark fur that was course at the first touch. But when John had pressed his fingers into it, beneath was a plush underlayer of softer and more plush fur. The inside of the fur hide was lined with a black satin. It was far nicer than anything John had ever seen a simple hunter wear. At the time, he'd not thought to mention it. And afterward, no time ever seemed right to ask the man about his luxurious, though curious, cloak. The good to come from the situation had been that Mr. Riley stopped acting like he completely abhorred John.

Since then, the man was still short and rough when speaking to John. He still treated the boy like he was an annoyance. Like John was an irritating pest that he couldn't quiet wash off. The light of it, though, was that the man did talk to him and did allow the boy to trail after him on occasion. Mr. Riley had taken to clearly stating when he'd had enough of John and that he wanted to be alone. For the last three years, John had respected Mr. Riley's request to be alone, so long as he was given leave to be a pest other time.

Tonight was the first time John had seen Mr. Riley since the man's most recent request to be left alone the day before. John wondered if the man was allowing himself to be followed now because he was willing to have the company, or if it was simply because the boy had been out late and starting to get frightened. Glancing sidelong and up at the man’s face, John thinks the massive shoulders look tense and those amber eyes seem squinted as though in pain or intense concentration.

They are drawing close enough that the village fires are starting to illuminate the darkness from the surrounding night. As Mr. Riley guides them closer, the firelight flashes in the man's eyes, almost as if it's reflecting in the amber depths.

"Whether the stories are real or not, the dead and torn bodies I've seen on the moor are. The blood and bone are real. And for that, you should be more afraid."

John looks up at Mr. Riley's face. There's something there, hidden in the depths of his eyes, that makes John's breath catch. He's just about to say something, though he's not sure what, when his father is stepping around a house a few yards down and then rushing towards them. Half a second behind him, Mr. Price comes around another house, looking relieved when he sees John. That is until he sees the large shadow trailing behind the boy.

"John!"

"Da", John mutters, hunching in on himself as he and Mr. Riley come to a stop, his father before them in only a few quick steps and Mr. Price coming over at a slower pace.

"Why, ye Ma's worried t' a stint! What were ye thinkin', no' comin' home when it started t' get dark?"

"Sorry, sir", John says, keeping his head down.

His father huffs, angry and worried in equal measure. He knew he shouldn't have stayed out. John wished he could say it wouldn't happen again, but he knew it would be a lie.

"Was my fault, Mr. MacTavish."

John and his father look up sharply at Mr. Riley's quiet rumble. Mr. Price's eyes narrow shrewdly, head tilting in an odd manner as he gazes intently at Mr. Riley.

"Mr. Riley?", John's father frowns.

"Little runt followed me to the moor. Was settin' snares and he wanted to learn", Mr. Riley explains smoothly, his accent making the words curl in the night air, "Figured it was a good skill for a young man to have. 'Specially with fall comin' quick. Lost track of time."

John, his father, and Mr. Price blink up at the man. After a moment, John's father sighs. John is fairly sure he's still in a lot of trouble when he gets home, but for now, Mr. Riley has covered for him.

"Thank ye, Mr. Riley, but it's dangerous at night. Especially around this time o' the month. Even with a hunter such as yourself keeping him company", John's father says evenly.

"It is", Mr. Riley nods, eyes more serious than ever before as his gaze turns down to meet Johns, "Which is why I was just telling your boy, he needs to take more care and not be out late like this again. As you say."

John huffs, lower lip puffing out in a pout. He can't even defend himself or risk outing Mr. Riley as a liar. And himself as a superstitious nutter that wants to catch a glimpse of the local monster.

"Thank ye, Mr. Riley", he grumbles instead.

The man gives a small nod.

"Well then, we should all be heading home. The night grows cold", John's father says, wrapping an arm around John's shoulders and starting to turn them in the direction of home, "Good night, Mr. Riley. Price."

"Good night, Mr. MacTavish", both men say, Price giving John's father a pat to the shoulder.

"G'night, Mr. Riley", John says over his shoulder, looking back at the man as his father leads him away.

"Hm. Night."

As John is led around the next house, he thinks he hears quiet words exchanged between Mr. Price and Mr. Riley.

"Bells said something was out there. What-?"

"A wandering bodach glas."

"Ah. 'Tis a bad omen."

"Smelled something else. Couldn't track it though. Either way, we're lucky the boy is safe."

---

John knows he shouldn't have been out late. Again. It's only been a few days since the last time he'd been out past the sun going down and Mr. Riley had to walk him home. His mother and father had been worried, and when he and his father got back to their home, John had gotten a thrashing for his troubles. He was just able to sit without wincing, and here he was walking the small paths outside the safety of the village fires, with only the full moon to keep him company.

After dinner, his mother and father had been busy with his latest sibling yet again. John's sisters were so absorbed in themselves, that it had been easy to slip away out a window. The village night watchers were an easy bunch to track. If they weren't huddled around the village fires, then they would have been walking their routes. Which, for a crafty ten-year-old like John, were nothing to sneak around.

Grinning, John makes his way up the paths to his lookout rock. It's a wonderfully, uncharacteristically clear night, and he wants to see if he can see the lights of the village fires from Brandsuir, the next settlement over. Some of the older kids had said you could see them on a really clear night. Kyle, his best friend, had snuck out a night or so ago and confirmed it. John felt he had to as well, to see it for himself. Overhead, the full moon illuminates the ground below, allowing John to make his way with minimal issues.

As he's climbing a rocky bit of the path, having to push extra through his legs, he hears the sound of rocks and dirt sliding behind him. Memories of a few nights ago have John turning, half expecting to see Mr. Riley standing there at the bend in the path. No one is there though. Frowning, John turns back and continues on his way. He's rounding the next bend in the path, when he hears a twig snap to his right. Halting, he looks in the direction. A bush rustles, but nothing else moves. The air has gone oddly silent.

"Mr. Riley?"

No answer. Swallowing thickly, John starts walking again. He's almost to the top of the hill, the bottom of his lookout rock jutting from the side of the rocky face above. John looks up, tracking his path in the moonlight. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and he glances down the path the way he'd come. Around the last turn, is a soft glow of light. Head tilting curiously, John holds still and holds his breath.

"Mr. Riley?", he asks again.

Something tells him it's not the hunter. It's in this moment that he realizes that, even in the darkest of nights, he's never seen Mr. Riley use a torch or candle to light his way. No one else should be out this time of night though. Especially this time of the month, his father’s words come to mind. John glances up at the full moon, on the first night of its three-night cycle.

A twig snaps behind him, up at the rock. Just as John is about to look, the light down the path grows brighter. A rock tumbles. Just as the light rounds the corner, John gasps at the visage of a man, only to deflate a second later when he realizes it's his father.

"Da", John sighs, already accepting that he was going to get another punishment for being out late.

"John. Son, i's no' safe. The hell ye doin'?", his father whispers, his voice kept low.

"Jus' wanted t' see if A could see Brandsuir from the lookout", John says back as his father walks up to him.

The light from the torch gives an orange glow to the space around them, casting moving shadows. It's more eerie than the way the light of the moon bathes the world in sliver light. John feels more apprehensive over the shadows from the fire than he does of that by the moon. His father’s face is half shadow, but what he can see softens with a fond exasperation.

"I's a clear night, aye? If they've got their fires goin', imagine we'll see 'em."

John lights up, grinning.

"Aye", he nods, taking his father’s free hand, "Nik says it's like lightbugs in the distance."

"Oh?", his father hums as they both walk the rest of the way up to the lookout rock at the top of the hill.

When they reach the top, John and his father look down at the lights of their own village. It looks quaint and homely. Warm and inviting. John turns and the brightness of his father’s torch briefly burns his eyes.

"Ah. Da. Willnae be able t' see anythin' wi' that so bright."

His father hums, looks around, then walks to the side and sets the handle of the torch between several rocks, wedging it in so it will stand on its own. The light is far enough away now that when John turns to the right, off in the distance, he can just barely see small dots of light.

"Look, Da. A can see i' there", he says excitedly, pointing to the far-off lights.

"Aye, lookit that", his father smiles.

"Wonder if they can see us", John hums thoughtfully.

"Likely not, wha' wi' the village bein' down the hill", his father answers, "Though A doubt any o' their young ones snuck out late t' wander the night."

"Bet there's one or two fun ones", John huffs back, teasingly petulant.

"Oh, aye. Fun and troublesome", his father laughs, moving the few yards away to pick up the torch, "Come now. Let's head back home. Yer Ma'll be wor-"

His father's words stop short. Frowning, John turns from looking out over the land and finds his father standing a way away, tense and shocked. He's not sure why, until he follows his father's gaze. At the same moment, a low sound like rumbling thunder of an approaching storm sends shivers down his spine.

It's huge. Massive. The hulking mass is covered head to toe in dark fur, the brown of it looking like rough tilled dirt and glinting with flecks of red in like from the torch. It's standing on two legs, the feet an odd angle and with too many joints to be a person. The toes on each foot are capped with long and frightening talon like claws. The thighs are thick, leading up to a wide waist with a bunching of longer fur at the center. Rippling muscles so similar to abs clench and a large barrel chest heaves with panting breaths, low rumbling sounds coming with each breath.

Wide set and thickly muscled shoulders extend down to long arms. The hands resemble that of a human, except for the razor sharp and deadly looking claws at the end of each finger. John swallows and his eyes travel back up to the creature's neck, manned with the same brown fur. Then there's the head. It's that of a wolf, only larger, and there's something in the structure of it that seems more expressive. Eyes as green as a fresh blade of grass reflect the firelight, gazing between John and his father. The growling breaths pant past the canine muzzle, from the wide mouth that is filled with gleaming, dripping, fangs.

"Don' move", his father whispers, himself not moving or taking his eyes from the beast standing only a few leaps away.

John tries to swallow, but his mouth has gone dry. This was a beast of legend and myth. This was straight from the stories told to scare children. Well, looking at it now, he sure was scared. This monster looked like it could swallow him with only a few bites. Was this the beast that roamed the moors and the woods around their village, that howled in the night and tore into pillars around their land? Was this The Ghost?

The giant wolf huffs through its nose, licks its lips, and the muscles in its body visibly coil. John swallows, the sound inexplicably loud in the moment, and he flinches reflexively. Green eyes jump to him, reflecting dangerously. Every bit of his being screams danger and for him to run. His father told him not to move though. Scared and not sure what to do, John looks to his father.

The moment he looks away, the wolf moves. It lunges for him and he's only aware of it because of an instinct buried deep within his being. John is looking at his father when it happens. It's almost like the world itself slows down as a force so strong and solid it's like getting hit by stone barrels into him. His father turns at the same time. The ground disappears beneath John's feet, his body jolting into the air, and he can't look away from his father's horrified face.

The ground returns with a force just as equal to what had sent him flying. John hits the ground hard and something in his right arm snaps. A shout of pain tries to claw its way out of him, but the hard landing has knocked the breath out of him. Gasping and wheezing, his lungs burn as he tries to get his breath back, tears gathering in his eyes. A snarling growl sends shivers down his spine. A moment later and there's a hollering shout. Fire flashes before Johns eyes.

He blinks sluggishly. Pain, terror, and the fight to get his breath back makes it hard to focus. More shouting, his father screaming for him to run. John tries to get to his feet, but the arm he's using to brace himself collapses with a shuddering blast of pain. Letting out a cry, John finally gets his eyes clear enough to see, only to cry out again in horror.

A few yards away from where he's lying, John's father is down on the ground with the massive monster on top of him. There's liquid pooling on the ground, staining his father's clothes and skin, dripping from the wolves' mouth and fur. The torch gets knocked further to the side by the beast's tail and the liquid turns red as the light hits it. Blood. There's blood everywhere. His father's screaming had stopped. All that's left is John's crying and the monsters snarling.

Wild green eyes turn to John. The fear clenches hard in his chest, overshadowing the pain. Breath chokes past his lips, hitching painfully in his chest. John gasps, trying to get his body to move, to crawl away. Slowly, the wolf follows him, stalks him. He tries to shout, to tell the beast to go away, to cry out for help. Nothing comes out though. The monster is only feet from him. Deliriously, John thinks he can feel the heat from its body, can smell the blood and gore stuck to its fur. The large creature shifts, body tensing as it's about to pounce. John stares it right in the eye.

A moment later, a gust of wind, a roar that makes his ears ring, and a void slams into the brown wolf. The bodies go tumbling back and John gasps in shock when they come to a stop with the dark mass standing between him and the brown beast. It's another wolf creature, only this one is larger, much larger, than the brown one. If John had thought the first wolf thing big, then this new one was gigantic. The parts of the new beast he can see, its enormous shoulders, back, and tail are covered in thick black fur. If not for the light from the fire and the moon, the creature would blend in with the dark of the night around it.

The two monsters snarl and roar at each other, their howls echoing over the hills. John blinks, trying to gather himself up enough to run. As he turns away from the two creatures, distracted as they are with each other, John works to get his feet under him. He slips on the wet ground beneath him, his whole body trembling so hard he's not sure how he manages. Several feet are as far as he can make it before he's tripping and falling again. The ground shakes beneath him as the black wolf throws the smaller brown one to the ground. John can hear them fighting behind him.

He loses track of time, but the fight lasts as long as it takes him to stumble and crawl his way to the lookout rock. He slips down into the crevice at the base of the rock where it juts from the side of the hill. Curling close to the cold stone, John looks over the edge of the rocks to the two bodies rolling around not too far away. There's even more blood all over the ground. The brown wolf is down on the ground, the black beast leaning over it with its mouth clenched tight around its opponent's throat. There's a garbled screech from the creature on the ground, a twist of the head from the black wolf, and then all sounds cut out and the brown wolf goes still.

Shuddering and trying to keep from breathing too loudly, John presses himself even closer to the rocks. The victor moves, one of its legs knocking into the torch, and the fire flickers briefly before going out; the flames are no longer able to fight against the wet of the night air and the blood soaking the earth around it. As the area is once again cloaked in darkness and bathed in the silver light from the full moon, John can't help but stare at the beast before him.

As it moves, he gasps again, but not out of fear. This wolf creature, the body so similar to a man's if not for the lupine traits that were so prevalent. Its midnight black fur blends with the darkness around it, the moon glinting off of it as its muscles shift beneath its skin. Except, there are parts of it not covered in fur. Down at the wolf's right side is a furless spot. Three gashes of hairless skin that are almost a foot long each, the fur having never grown back over what looks like the wound from another creatures' claws. There are more, he notes. Spots of skin scarred white, with no fur, littered over the beast’s body; its arms, hands, back, and legs.

John lets out a slow and shuddering breath, his eyes going wide as the large wolf's head turns, and John gets a look at its face. Most of the forehead, down around the eyes, and about halfway down its nose is white as bone. More scared skin, he realizes, that gives a skeletal impression. The creature's skull like scar stands out starkly from the inky color of the fur that lines the edges of what must have once been a truly terrible wound. In slim rings of black fur, set into the bone white of the scar, amber gold eyes gleam in the night.

"G-Ghost...", John gasps softly, unable to look away from those intense and burning eyes.

The eyes blink, lowering as the wolf drops to its haunches, hands on the ground. It looks more wolf-like in this position, yet no less unreal and supernatural; too large and aware to ever pass as a regular wolf. Lips pull back, showing off rows of sharp dagger like teeth, all dripping with blood. A sound, low and grumbling, rolls from the beast's chest. John swallows hard. The growling sound continues as the wolf once again rises, towering over the world around it. Moonlight glows in the sky above, bathing all below in grey and silver light. The skull like scar shines, but it's the eyes, those amber depths, that seem to burn bright.

In a flash, just as quickly as it had arrived, The Ghost turns and disappears into the night. As John slides, trips, and stumbles down the path, a howl rolls over the hills and follows him back to the village.

---

A funeral is held for John's father the next day and the village bury what pieces of him were salvaged. John was able to make his way home before dawn and his mother screams when she sees him tumble into the house, covered in blood with a broken arm and shaking all over. He tells her what happened, then the same to the village elders when they are sent for. He tells Mr. Price, as the older man tends to his broken arm. Mr. Price's eyes are sharp and intent, and there's a deep frown on his lips and crease in his brow, but he says nothing more than what's needed to tend to John's injury. 

John tells the men of the village when they are about to go look for his father and the body of the beast that was slain. They find the body of his father; the carcass of the brown wolf is nowhere to be found. The men come back with what of his father they were able to find. He hears them talk about how much blood there was, and how it looked like there had been one hell of a fight. John tries to tell them again that it was a large wolf-man-creature that killed his father and that it was The Ghost, a second giant wolf creature, that saved him. For he's sure that's what happened. If The Ghost hadn't shown up, that brown wolf would have surely killed John just as it did his father. The Ghost could have killed him, it looked right at him, yet it instead turned away and left him alone.

No one believes him though. They all assume that it was a pack of wild wolves that attacked him and his father. The adults look at him with sorrow and pity, as he tries to make them believe. In the end, it was a pack of wolves and a sad night. It's his mother, clutching at him and sobbing into his shoulder, that begs him to please stop telling tall tales. It was a pack of wolves.

"A pack o’ wolves", John repeats hollowly, when a deep voice asks him what happened.

It's after the funeral, night closing in. He needs to be heading home soon, but John is sitting on the ground at the base of the fence that surrounds the graveyard. He's been staring up the hill that holds the lookout rock. Just thinking of going up there makes his stomach turn.

"I'm sorry."

"I's ma fault", John says softly, getting to his feet and turning for home, "Good night, Mr. Riley."

"Good night."

---

"A'mma miss ye", Bree says wetly, her tear-stained face pressed to Johns shoulder.

"Aye. A'll miss ye too, wee one", he grins, patting her head.

"Ye'll write, wont ye?", his youngest sister asks for the tenth time, as John pulls away from her hug.

"O'course", he assures her again.

John is fifteen now. Five years since his father's death. A lot has changed, and yet seemingly nothing has. The village is still the same, the people simple folks who live their lives in routine and calm. John has done his best to become the young man his father would have wanted him to be, to grow and learn, to take up his father's work as a metal craftsman and to help care for his mother and sisters. Unfortunately, John doesn't think of himself as simply as the rest of his village.

As luck would have it, he's now being sent off and away from this simple life. An uncle on his father's side is a well to do man of means and title, currently living in France. He'd heard of his poorer brother's demise and sent word. The letter had arrived, delivered by a well-dressed messenger on a fancy horse, a week ago. It offered for John to come to France, to live with his uncle and be given an education in all manner of things, for a period of five years. John had not been instantly keen on leaving his family and his simple village. How could he walk away from the rolling hills and enchanting forests?

His mother, on the other hand, had leapt at the opportunity. She'd written back that same day, saying that John would be honored to receive such hospitality and that she would forever be grateful. Her letter was sent back with the same messenger, who would precede John's own journey. And so, John had helped his mother prepare for his departure and secured a seat on a passing trade wagon that would coming back around their way, packed his meager things, and was now waiting for the return of the tinker who would be his ride to the harbor. From there, his uncle had a ship waiting, then on to France and an unknown future.

"Worry not, dear boy", Mr. Price, who had become like a second father to John after his father’s death, says to him, "I'll help your ma out, when she allows it."

John's mother smiles, rolling her eyes at Mr. Price. Despite the gossip, John knew that only friendship was between the man and his mother. Mr. Price had been a dear friend to his father and had stepped up to help John's mother and sisters since his father’s death. While it had given the village a lot to gossip about, a budding romance or some other dribble, it had also helped to dispel some of the less kindly rumors about Mr. Price and him possibly being a witch.

"And I'll keep watch on your sisters. Make sure they don't end up with some warty old cot", Kyle grins.

Kyle, John's closest friend and one of the few people to believe him about what happened to his father, pulls John into a tight hug. At only two years younger than him, Kyle acts as if he's twenty years older. Pulling from the hug, John grins at his friend.

"Aye. 'S long as they danae end up wi' the like o' ye, they'll be a'right better off."

"Away wi' ye, ye wretch", Kyle laughs, punching at John's shoulder, "Write me 'bout any French lasses ye get cozy wi', eh? Hear nights can ge' pretty cold ou' that way."

"An' that's about as much o' that as A wanna hear", Loraine, Johns oldest sister huffs, turning to herd their other siblings away, "Come along now. No sense in lettin' chores suffer just 'cause John's runnin' off."

Mr. Price, John's mother, and Kyle all laugh. John smiles fondly, his heart clenching in sadness, as his sisters all flit away and back to the village. He'll miss them. The five years from his father's death to now had seemed to fly by. Looking ahead five years now, it seems a lifetime to be away from his family, his home, and the land he loves.

"Be safe, mo mhac", his mother says, wrapping her arms around him tight, pulling him from his thoughts and yet making his heart all the heavier, "An' do try to behave. Aye?"

"Aye, Ma. A'll do ma best", John promises, mostly meaning it.

"See to i'. An' see to i' ye return to us."

John kisses his mother on the head, on the cheek, and gives one last hard squeeze of her shoulders. It hurts to think of leaving her, but he knows she's in good hands. Mr. Price and Kyle, his adopted son, are like family to Johns. They'll look after his mother and sisters.

"Och, well. A cannae stand here and mope any longer. A'll wait for the tinker up the road a ways", John says, letting go of his mother and reaching to pick up the bag holding his few things.

"A love ye, John ma boy", his mother says thickly, tears once again starting to fall from her eyes.

"Love ye too, Ma."

"I'll walk wi' you a ways", Kyle says, giving a nod of his head to the road.

"Not too long, Kyle", Mr. Price says sullenly, "You have your own chores to see to."

"Aye, sir."

Mr. Price gives John a parting handshake and a pat to the shoulder, then he leads John's mother away. She's crying, and John turns to the road before he can change his mind. Kyle keeps in step with him, and they walk for a way in silence.

"Don't forget about me", Kyle says softly, after a moment.

"How could A?", John grins, "Ye like a brother t' me."

That brings a smile, watery and tear stained, to Kyles face. The boy sniffles and John decides that saying goodbyes like this is a too slow a torture.

"Think we should stop here", he says, stopping in the grass and turning to his friend, "Feels like less a goodbye."

"Aye", Kyle nods, "Ye jus' goin' the next town o'er or somethin'."

"Be back before ye ken it", John nods.

They stand across from each other, neither moving for several minutes. Unable to stand it, John steps forward and hugs his friend.

"See ye, Kyle."

"See ye, John."

They mutually part, eyes shining with tears. Kyle takes a deep breath, then turns and walks away. John swallows, heart sad but knowing it has to be this way. He'll be back. In five years. He can only hope that it will be as quick a number of years as it was the last since his father's death. Looking down the road, John takes a steadying breath, then his eyes are drawn to the side towards the hills of the moor. Without really meaning too, he steps off the road and heads for the thin path leading upwards.

The lookout rock is just as he last saw it. After what happened that night five years ago, it had taken almost a full year for John to gather his courage to come back to this spot. It had been a long and hard, crying and screaming, filled experience. The night had been pitch black, yet he'd sat with no light, letting the darkness surround him. Punishment for how his actions had led to his father's death.

Since then, John had only come to the lookout rock a few times each year. Some of the times it had been to get away, to visit one of the few places that still somehow felt peaceful on moonlit nights, despite what had happened here. Though one night each year, on the anniversary of his father's death, John would sit on the lookout rock and mourn. He would cry and rage. His howls of sorrow echoing over the moor. 

Standing on the large stone jutting out from the hillside, John looks down one last time at the land he grew up on. The village moves below as its simple folks go about their day. Soft wafts of smoke rise from the chimneys at the Lairds castle beyond. A breeze blows and the trees of the forest shift lazily, waving as if to wish him goodbye. Not for the first time, John wonders how he'll survive in a city, away from the open and free roaming land he's used to.

"It's almost midday. Your ride is late."

John only just keeps from startling at the deep voice that interrupts his thoughts. Though he knows who it is, he wipes his face on his sleeve before turning. Mr. Riley has not changed a day. The older man’s steady consistency is admirable and important in John's opinion. So much of the world may change, shifting and altering with the seasons and years, yet he can always count on the giant of a man to remain the same.

"Aye. Will likely be nightfall by the time we make it t' the next town o'er", John nods as the large form covered in fabric and fur comes over to stand next to him.

He'd never say out loud that he considered Mr. Riley a friend. The man would likely threaten to slit his throat if he did. John has grown all the more used to Mr. Riley's strange personality and harsh exterior. As a counter to it, he's developed what he likes to think of as a gentle familiarity with the man. Again, he'd likely get beat for his trouble, if he dared try and call them friends, or be any manner of openly affectionate with the man. Mr. Riley just wasn't the kind or gentle type. But they were companionable most of the time, and Mr. Riley seemed more willing to speak to John beyond what was necessary than he was with anyone else in the village.

"The moon is on its first full night", Mr. Riley says calmly, still looking straight out over the village, "You should ensure you're inside before dark hits."

"Cannae really promise that", John shrugs, "I's whenever the tinker gets here, and how fast his wagon goes. A'm jus' along for the ride."

The older man huffs, his shoulders expanding in a way that rustles the fur cloak. It makes it look like the pelt is breathing. For a flash, the dark fur looks brown in the sunlight. In the back of his memory, John hears his father scream for him to run. He feels the heat of an unnatural body, the smell of bloody breath, and the sound of deadly snarls.

"The next town is past the boarder stones", Mr. Riley says, voice low and amber eyes gleaming in the sun as he looks down at John, "It is dangerous to be past them, and not in the safety of a village after dark, on nights like tonight."

"Ah. A ken ye liked me", John says, trying to smile.

"I like you alive."

The seriousness and intensity in his gaze chips at the wall John has built around the memories of his father's death. While the man has never spoken on what happened, never asked John to retell the tale, never questioned John's assurance that it was merely a pack of wolves, there's always been something about him that makes John believe that Mr. Riley knows. It may not be that the man knows exactly what happened, but he did believe in the stories of The Ghost. Which meant that the man at least believed some of the truth; about how John's father was felled by a large wolf-man-creature. And for that, John liked Mr. Riley all the more. It gave him one more person he could be honest and himself around.

"A ken. A'll make sure the tinker makes haste", John can promise to try that much at least.

It's quiet between them for several minutes. Off in the distance, a small dot grows closer along the main road. As it does, it gains the shape of a two-team wagon. Trotting with it, several men and women on horseback. That will be the tinker, and what must be a few travelers that will join them along the road. John turns to say farewell to his momentary companion. When he turns though, Mr. Riley is already staring down at him. The expression within what little of his eyebrows and in those amber eyes that John can see, has his heart stuttering and his breath hitching for some reason.

"The world is filled with monsters. Human and other. Be careful out there. It would be a shame for the village to forever be without its most annoying troublemaker."

John blinks. Apart from the few times over his fifteen-year life, when the man had mentioned finding bloody and torn apart animals out in the moor or the woods, Mr. Riley had rarely outright mentioned monsters. The part of him raised by the simple people in the village below almost laughs at the seriousness in the older man's gaze. It's Mr. Riley's eyes too though, that keep him from doing so. Amber that looks like it glows from within stares back at him from behind the black soot on the man's skin and from beneath the dark cloth covering his face. Generally impassive and unconcerned about anything or anyone around him, in this moment, Mr. Riley's eyes all but burn.

"Haha. Aye, Mr. Riley. A'll be safe", John nods, grinning more easily, "Ye be so too. Watch out for beasts and monsters when ye're out huntin'. Be a shame for the village t' forever be wi'out i's broody shadow."

A brief flash of those warm gleaming eyes, so close to amusement. It's the closest John's ever seen to laughter or emotion in the man.

"Hm. Indeed."

The traveling party is much closer now. John can leave and meet them right at the crossroads if he leaves now.

"Well. Goodbye then, Mr. Riley", John says, taking his first step off the lookout rock, down the hill, heading towards his future.

He's yards away, the breeze blowing him forward from behind. The wind whistles over his ears and he thinks he hears the man behind him speak. By that point though, the tinker is waving up the hill and shouting asking if he's John MacTavish. John waves and shouts back a yes, too late now to turn back and see if Mr. Riley was still standing on the stone slab.

Hours later, the small party of horses and wagon pass the border stones and their wooden pillar companions. The sun is quickly going down, and they've a few hours still before they reach the next town. John tries to urge the group to move a little quicker. A few of the older men agree, seeming to sense or know the same danger of being out at night. The younger and more self-centered men puff up and laugh over the absurdity of being scared of the dark.

The sky is dark, the full moon bathing the hills and trees around them in silver light. Warm light from the fires of the village town is close, but still an hour of slow moving away. Off in the distance, a loud and eerie howl echoes over the moor. John swallows, several of the party jerking and looking around nervously. Another howl, from the completely opposite direction, and further away, sounds. The hoot of an owl and the squawk of an unknown bird makes two of the women sitting in the wagon with John shiver.

Finally at the village, tucked into the barn with the horses and wagon, John lays in a bed of straw and stares out the window. The full moon hangs in the night sky high above. A howl far away sings as his eyes droop with sleep. As John drifts off into the land of dreams, tired and already sick for home, he remembers the final words whispered on the wind as he'd walked away from his lookout rock.

"Goodbye, Johnny.”

---