Fire: Chapter One

The sound of rain had always possessed the power to lull Shannon to sleep. It drummed relentlessly on the sturdy slate roof, and lashed in great sheets against the tiny windows of the cottage. Shannon's eyelids sank back into sleep as the rain's melody washed over her and she was swimming in a fast-flowing river, laughing at first but then the water grew deeper, the undertow was taking her further from shore, she was going under...

The sudden banging of a shutter startled Shannon awake. Her heart was pounding against her ribcage and she was soaked with sweat. She struggled to free herself from the tangle of bedclothes that had wrapped themselves tightly around her limbs. Was she having another bad dream? Always water, in her nightmares...

Shaking herself to full wakefulness, she threw on her big, comfy Aran cardigan and shuffled to the window. The heavy wooden shutters were very useful in these Scottish winters; keeping at bay the gales that roared down from the coast, reaching inland as far as her tiny portion of the county of Stirling.

Shannon smiled to herself as she filled the coffee pot. She recalled some American tourists she had met last summer in the town square, trying their best to pronounce "Stirlingshire". Their effort could have come straight out of Monty Python. Shannon found herself smiling again at the thought of her favorite turn-of-the-decade late-night comedy show that was still being repeated, even now in 1974, on the BBC. Those guys were a bunch of lovable nutters, for sure. No wonder the Yanks think the British are all slightly insane!

Canadians, of course, were a different breed altogether, Shannon thought as she showered and dressed. Although British-born, she had spent a good deal of her twenties in Canada, travelling and learning some potentially useful life skills such as spending the night in a canoe, how to light a fire without matches, and how to convert miles into kilometres. Of course, she never had learned to swim.

Still, now that she was back in her homeland, she was more than content to potter around the small crofter's cottage. The money that Mum had left her had turned out to be just enough to buy the run-down, isolated croft, which came with an overgrown five acres and, according to the solicitor, the deed to a section of lakeshore on the southern edge of the property. Shannon had plans to start a herb garden in the spring, and begin the hard job of hacking through the undergrowth that had hijacked the rest of the property. Meanwhile, she had her hands more than full this first winter, keeping enough logs split to stoke the woodstove. The croft was cozy and welcoming, with thick fieldstone walls and traditional whitewashed interior with exposed oak beams. The small, deep-set windows kept out the unique damp chill of a late October in Scotland.

In Canada, Shannon was used to snow and cold temperatures - she had done survival training in the boreal wilderness, for heaven's sake - but this interminable Scottish rain was something else. Standing at the window with her mug of steaming hot coffee, she gazed out at the sky, heavy with low grey cloud, as though the entire atmosphere of the earth had been chilled to the bone and sank down to ground level under its own soaking weight. Shannon shivered. God help anyone who gets caught out in this, she thought.

So saying, Shannon realized that she did, in fact, have to go out. Her solicitor had given her strict instructions to sign back the deed to the lakefront portion of her property for delivery to his office this afternoon, and she had no intention of signing anything sight-unseen. So, rain or no rain, she had no choice but to trek down to Clare Tarn and survey her property.

Clare Tarn was too small to be on anything but an Ordnance Survey map, but due to its proximity to the local National Trust heritage site of Doune Castle, it was considered to be an "environmentally significant feature" (at least according to the firm of Corlees & Matlin, Solicitors). Shannon drained the last of her coffee, pulled on her sturdy hiking boots and deftly wove her long, dark hair into one waist-length braid. Never a
high-maintenance or "girly" girl, Shannon prized comfort and practicality above fashion, yet still somehow managed to achieve what she laughingly called "lumberjack chic" with faded jeans, Doc Martens or hiking boots paired with a boy's string vest and red plaid flannel shirt. With her green Barbour all-weather farmer's jacket and sturdy walking stick, she was ready for any kind of terrain.

Shannon banked the fire up, closed the damper and piled on some green wood. That should keep it going for a couple of hours, although she had no intention of being gone that long. The lake was only about ten minutes' hike away, and then she could take a nice ramble back through the woods, sign the papers and drive into town to the damn lawyer's office. Even now, Shannon would lapse back into a Canadian lilt whenever something from "civilization" got on her nerves. She was much more comfortable by herself, hiking out here on a wild Scottish moor, travelling through little-known corners of the globe, or back home, cozily ensconced in her cottage, writing about her adventures backpacking in Canada and around the world.

Still, she was nothing if not responsible and she had a deadline to meet, so Shannon slung on her trusty old worn-out, khaki canvas girl guide backpack with green webbing straps, which contained her "wandering gear": her dad's swiss army knife, a flint, rudimentary first-aid kit, whistle, compass, binoculars, camera and gum. Pulling the drawstring of her hood firmly around her face, Shannon closed the heavy oak door of the croft and set out with a determined stride through the steadily pelting rain.