The Key-Stone of the Bridge
Craig Meggy
Author Bio
Craig Meggy is a bon viveur, malt of the barley-fueled raconteur, occasional, and part-time Scottish Granny agony aunt (so he gives great advice and also tell you where to shove it). After decades of talking total tosh, he’s finally written some of it down and crafted an enjoyable tale “The Key-Stone of the Bridge” based loosely and extrapolated extensively from witnessing acts of pleasure, mirth, stupidity, the heartbreakers and the heartbroken all performed by anyone and everyone he’s ever met – or at least those he remembers.
Description
This is a tale a very Scottish tale, full of chills, thrills, mystery, whisky, and suspense.
Four men are on a mission, to fulfill a last request and scatter the ashes of their friend on a mountain. They reunite at an allegedly haunted and isolated shelter amid the creaking bonds of an alliance built in the amber whisky haze of their misspent youth.
In beautiful and unusually calm winter weather, they complete their task, but then well, things start to get a little strange.
The mountains are usually deserted in winter but two visitors appear seeking shelter and tell of meeting a mystery hiker. That night has some strange goings on but they blame that on the whisky. Then when there is no sign of the mystery hiker, the four decide to look for him or his body. But the weather deteriorates, their misfortune grows and they return to find their sanctuary gone. Now, they are in a fight for their own survival.
Will they struggle through reach civilization and finally discover the shocking truth about their guests and the mystery hiker?
Book excerpt
I had woken from the same dream I’d had so many times. One in which I seemed to be tethered in some way to a bus as it hurtled along a winding road that clung to a steep mountainside. I would be soaring high above, effortlessly swooping and wheeling, sometime almost landing on the roof. Then the bus would swerve round another corner and off I would soar. It always felt as though I could control my flight and yet somehow I never did nor did I ever land.
Drowsy and slightly numb as the dream faded like an adrenaline rush I relaxed feeling calm and serene and looked out the oval window. The familiar lights and sights of Edinburgh loomed through the clouds, a picture postcard grid of Georgian architectural splendor fleetingly revealed. As groups of raindrops raced across the window and runway lights pricked the gloom the flight attendants took their seats. A heavy bounce, a chorus of stifled gasps and we all braced until the rising crescendo of hydraulic forces fighting air and tarmac gradually eased. Slowing to a roll, we taxied gently to the gate, relieved as the throbbing roar of the engines subsided.
“Welcome to Edinborrow Airport, please remain seated…” the American flight attendant launched into her practiced spiel mangling the name of the city then culminating cheerfully with, “and safe onward travel if Edinborrow is not your final destination.”
Aye, well whatever you wanted to call it, it wasn’t my final destination. Me, I was on a mission, to reunite with old friends and head north to a remote mountain shelter in the highlands of Scotland. There we would gather as we had done many times before but on this occasion to honor a request, one written in the last will and testament of one John ‘Banjo’ Brown. At the time I had no idea that this weekend in tribute to our departed friend would have such bizarre repercussions.
Author Website
http://www.key-stoneofthebridge.com
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