We climbed Arthur’s Seat on Midsummer’s Day, to wash our faces in the dew as the sun rose. The path was slippery and the fog was down, dulling any sound there might have been. Birdsong was distant then silent.
We were near the top, on the steepest slope, when out of the mist the sound of a muffled drum rolled towards us. We stopped. Looked around. Looked at one another. Then out of the mist strode a shadow, taller than any of us and wide as a castle door. Black and silver streaked hair to his shoulders, cape and cassock flying. ‘Pagans’ he shouted, eyes black fire, ‘leave this place.’ He pushed past us and was gone. The drum was still.
Our looks said it was true and we did not speak again until we fell into the palace grounds again.
At Halloween we did not dare.