The Three-Year Curse

The island rose, accusingly, from the middle of the loch, and on the shoreline at their feet a boat had been conveniently moored, oars impatiently awaiting hands to pull them, the message clear. Come.

Jim was real sick. His face was green and his eyes were spinning. He’d hardly said a word the entire journey except, ‘the map! Deirdre, where’s the map?’

?‘What map Jim? You’ve got all kinds of clutter in this van. It’s an absolute tip!’

She wasn’t a keen driver and they had ventured off the main road an hour before. Jim had assured her that the dirt track would arrive at a place called Loch Inward. It was here that Wilmur would be waiting.

The one thing about Jim was you trusted what he said, the guy hadn’t touched a drink in nearly thirty years of marriage. He was handsome too. So young looking.

They emerged at speed through an opening in the trees to a ghostly scrap of driftwood-covered shoreline. Deirdre hadn’t seen a single soul for miles. As the last rays of sunlight glanced over the water, Jim raised a bloodshot eye towards the horizon. There it was: a gloomy island, the skeleton of a castle rising above the mist.

‘There,’ he spluttered, ‘Loch Inward Castle. The island of the…d …d’

It sounded like … ‘damned’.

Now that didn’t sound good but Deirdre was more concerned about how they were going to get there.

‘You call that a boat?’ The flimsy, waterlogged vessel had the inscription Wilmur along its flaky stern. The oars looked as brittle as bones.

‘Hurry Deirdre. The light is fading.’

There was no time for questions. Jim had to be dragged. He was sinking in and out of consciousness.

‘Wait,’ he said, in a faint moment of clarity, ‘the van, go to the glove compartment. You’ll find a leather satchel. The map is inside. And grab a torch.’

‘I’m worried we’re not going to make it Jim.’

The look in his eyes said, ‘we have to.’

Out on the water, as darkness fell, Deirdre did her best to navigate to the island. The torch was useless – instinct prevailed. Jim seemed to rejuvenate a little as they got further from the shore. He fumbled the map from the satchel and started studying it.

???????????‘We must reach the cellar’, he said, ‘in the castle’s crypt.’

Deirdre stopped rowing for a second. ‘It’s always cellars and crypts with you Jim. Can’t we go on a romantic minibreak for once? With a spa!’

Jim looked perplexed, then threw up over the side of the boat.

‘And they say romance is dead,’ muttered Deirdre.

It was getting difficult to see. Thick fog encircled the island. When they hit land, the hull of the Wilmur scraped the bottom of the loch, ripping a hole that was too big to ignore. Somehow they stumbled arm in arm onto the beach, collapsing in a heap, watching the boat fill with water.

???????????‘The boat! It’s useless now. We’ll never get back.’

???????????‘We may not come back Deirdre. Put the torch on. Let’s go.’

Jim had been a collector all his life. Totems, trinkets, maps – all kinds of ‘clutter’ as Deirdre would call it. But most of all he collected experiences. He’d dragged her half way round the world looking for what? Answers? The Pyramids of Giza. The caves at Lascaux. Bolivia. New Mexico. Kazakhstan. Always searching, always living out of a van. And now they were here in this chilly corner of Scotland.

???????????Deirdre could see the ivy creeping up the castle walls ahead.

Jim was turning blue. The last time he was sick was years ago, in Egypt, but this time something was really wrong. There was a nihilistic tone in his voice that Deirdre hadn’t registered before. ?????

???????????A starry sky revealed itself as the fog began to lift. ‘Look Jim,’ she said, as they approached a bridge to the castle entrance, ‘we all have demons. I mean you know I can’t resist a drink. But this endless quest? You’ve got to tell me what’s going on. We both remember Cairo. And three years before that, in France? It’s happening again!’

???????????Suddenly they bumped into something warm and alive.

‘Argh! What was that?’

‘A cow Deirdre, just a Highland cow. A herd resides on the island. I should have told you, I’ve been here before. Many years ago. Come. Across the bridge.’ The cow shuffled into the night.

As they walked over the bridge it began to collapse behind them.

Deirdre let out a piercing shriek.

They scrambled to safety by the castle gate.

Jim continued, breathlessly. ‘First of all Deirdre, the thing is, what I am about to say is going to sound crazy, but you have to believe me. There is an ancient hex on me. They call it the three-year curse. A powerful curse. It makes me immortal. I will live forever. However – I must remain teetotal. Well, nearly. I must take a drink every three years or my immortality ends, I get sick, and I die.’

‘That really does sound crazy Jim… but your face tells me I need to believe you.’

He looked visibly relieved. ‘The hex was put on me by the one they call Wilmur. Although he goes by many names. Scotland is where I have traced his curse, back here to Loch Inward Castle on the Isle of Dram. I have searched for Wilmur all over the world. In the pyramids of Egypt, his hideout in Panama, even his Arctic temple. But his secret has always eluded me – until now. It was here, after painstaking research, that I realised he had returned, to the place of his ancestors. The method by which he gave me the curse I have also pieced together. Many years ago I came to the Isle of Dram on my stag party and drank from an illicit whisky still, containing a golden liquid called Wilmur’s Revenge.’

‘It was the week before the wedding Jim. I still remember your headache.’

‘Indeed. I couldn’t remember a thing. This was cask strength whisky of the most devilish kind. It’s depth and flavour was unmatched and once consumed it remains the only thing that can undo Wilmur’s curse. Legend has it that the three-year curse will only end by choosing the correct whisky in a blind tasting of Wilmur’s demonic design. You see this map in my hands? This is a series of tasting notes that will reveal the true flavour of Wilmur’s Revenge and finish this once and for all.’

They approached the cellar.

A low voice growled. ‘Who goes there?’

‘I have returned for you Wilmur, you spectral being of the night’ said Jim, shivering, ‘this has gone on far too long.’

The door creaked open.

The cellar was a cavernous whisky distillery and bar, the floor scattered with bottles and debris. Some antiquated furnishings gave it a certain character. Wilmur himself was hard to make out. When he emerged he was carrying a tray of ornate quaichs.

Jim slammed his fist down on the bar.

‘Bar’s closed,’ said Wilmur.

‘Release me from this curse.’

‘You wish to be released from the three-year curse? Ha, no mortal man has ever remembered the taste of Wilmur’s Revenge. Go ahead, make your choice.’

Jim propped himself on a stool. Deirdre joined him. ‘I accept your fiendish challenge Wilmur. Deirdre, pass me the tasting notes.’

As Deirdre looked on, Wilmur poured one whisky after another and Jim slugged them back.

‘No no no, none of these are Wilmur’s Revenge!’

He swirled each whisky and studied the notes.

Wilmur’s Revenge: honeycomb, dry seaweed, salty notes of Cullen skink. Sturdy as a castle, surprising as a butterfly.

The castle walls began to fall in around them.

‘Hurry Jim,’ said Deirdre, ‘the whole place is quaking!’

Jim was slurring his words but he had a glint in his eye.

‘This is it, Deirdre, this is Wilmur’s Revenge! As soon as it touched my lips … I knew.’

‘Not so fast,’ Wilmur gasped, ‘the curse must pass on to another! Or this castle collapses on top of us!’

‘Deirdre, no!’

She grabbed the quaich and drank the demonic dram.

The walls continued to crumble. Wilmur turned and ran through the castle.

‘After him Deirdre!’

While the chase was spirited, Wilmur managed to disappear into the castle’s garden maze. Later that night they heard a helicopter taking off into the distance.

The next morning, Deirdre and Jim woke up with extremely sore heads. A boat full of holidaymakers had found them sleeping on the beach, surrounded by empty bottles of whisky. They were the talk of the cruise, which was on a month-long tour of the isles.

???????????The captain offered them a cabin on board and a seat at the table for dinner.

???????????‘Three years,’ said Deirdre, ruminating on deck, ‘I suppose it’s a blessing and a curse.’

???????????Jim turned and held her hand. ‘It’s not so bad, look on the bright side, we’re finally getting that romantic holiday we’ve always dreamed of. We can still have a good time.’

???????????‘A trip to the Scottish islands does sound perfect Jim.’

???????????‘I hear there’s an abandoned cemetery out there that’s nice at this time of year. It is home to a talkative poltergeist. Such a creature may know something of Wilmur’s whereabouts.’

???????????‘Jim, please!’

Three Years Later

Though the search had been fruitless these past years, rumour had it that Wilmur was once again in Scotland, in the hills north of Inverness. As they walked through a Highland meadow strewn with butterflies, the wildflowers gave a scent of honey. Jim opened his notebook and pointed towards a deserted farmhouse. They knew they were close. Any minute now they would be face to face with the last remaining case of Wilmur’s Revenge. Once destroyed, Wilmur’s power would be at an end.

???????????But as they entered the building and stood over the case, Deirdre was in two minds.

???????????‘It would be a shame to waste it,’ she said.

???????????‘Agreed,’ said Jim, cracking open a bottle, ‘and may I propose a toast. To absent friends.’

???????????‘To absent friends.’ But the voice that echoed back through the murk wasn’t Deirdre’s – it was Wilmur’s!

???????????Jim took a swig of whisky. ‘We meet again, rascal spirit!’

???????????‘You think you can outwit me and destroy Wilmur’s Revenge? Ha, the three-year curse must be passed on. The sequence cannot be broken.’

???????????‘The sequence breaks tonight!’

???????????With that the two of them struggled each other to the ground. At one point Jim had the upper hand. Then Wilmur. Then Jim again. Finally, Wilmur was subdued and ready to cooperate. Jim poured out a little whisky in a glass.

???????????‘Drink this, Wilmur.’

???????????Reluctantly Wilmur took a sip, knowing now it would be his turn to take on the three-year curse.

???????????‘Looks like you got a taste of your own medicine,’ said Deirdre, pouring the last drops of Wilmur’s Revenge into a glass and polishing it off, ‘that’s the last of it. You’ll have to distill some more – and you of all people should know that Scotch whisky must be matured for a minimum of three years! And this stuff? Many more than that. Perhaps we can go for a drink together when the time comes.’

???????????‘Never!’ said Wilmur, fleeing.

Jim and Deirdre walked out into a sunset which sparkled like a single malt.

‘Revenge is sweet, my darling.’

Jim kept his eyes on the road.

???????????‘Let us never talk of this again.’

The End