The Last Sunset (40 page)

There were figures by the hedgerow a
hundred yards to the east. Odd he hadn’t noticed them before. There were a
dozen or so, each of them familiar in some way. As he looked closer he realised
the figures were entangled in the thorns, as though they were caught in a line
of barbed wire. They writhed and twisted, trying to free themselves, but only
succeeded in ensnaring themselves further. The image stirred a dark impression
in his mind; a sense that something terrible had taken place here, something
that remained unfinished.

He scrambled out of the earthworks with
the assuredness of one acting out a dream. As he rose to his feet he realised
he hadn’t been lying behind earthworks at all, but in a natural hollow, on the
edge of a wood. What he’d thought was a rifle was no more than a walking stick.
His khaki uniform the simple tweed of home. He could feel the warm sun on his
face as he strode across the fields. Around him insects buzzed and birds sang.
In the distance he could hear a child shouting excitedly in French. A dog
barked in reply.

It didn’t take him long to reach the
hedgerow. He could see only one figure there now, tangled in the thorns like a
soldier caught in a barbed mesh. The figure was perfectly still, as though he
knew he was about to be released.

Alistair was not in the least surprised to
find he was looking at his own lifeless face. Nor was he surprised at the expression
of peace he saw there. These green French fields, where corn could now be
harvested instead of men, these fields could at last be left unguarded.

Alistair would stand his watch amongst the
hills of home.

The Last Sunset
was conceived amongst the empty glens and ruined townships of
Lochaber. The events of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries still scar this
land, and indeed continue to scar the psyche of many of the older inhabitants.

There are glens within ten miles of Fort William where you can
walk all day without seeing another living soul. Once heavily populated, these
places have long been left to the wind and heather.

The past hangs heavy here, and occasionally - just occasionally -
you can sense moments from those days. A brief scent of peat smoke in a ruined
settlement. The tang of manure amidst the green swathes of a shieling that
haven’t seen cattle in two hundred years.

Indeed, Sam’s tale from Gettysburg is closely based on the story
told to me by a rational, well-educated woman who watched the spectres of two
ragged clansmen materialise around her campfire by the shores of a remote loch
some years ago.

The world is dotted with places around which the wheel of history
briefly turned: Stalingrad. Waterloo. Gettysburg. The skies above England in
1940. Likewise for a few months in 1745/46, the Highlands occupied one of those
crossroads of history.

Who knows what kind of world we would inhabit had events
transpired differently here?

And on some other shore perhaps lies Tir
Nan Og

The land of the Gael.

Where Highland hills no longer mourn their
brood

Of empty ruined glens.

Where bleating sheep no longer rule where
Highland hearts

Have tried and failed.

And where at last Culloden’s graves

Are empty of their Highland dead.

— Bob Atkinson, Fort William, May
2012

I was born and raised in the district of
Lochaber, in the Western Highlands of Scotland. At the age of seventeen the age
old curse of the Highlands, lack of work and opportunity, forced me to take the
same military path taken by many of my forebears.

While serving with the army in Northern Ireland I met my future
wife; the lovely and diminutive Ruby, inspiration for at least one of the
female characters in
The Last Sunset
.

After leaving the army I moved to Belfast where together Ruby and
I lived through many of the worst years of the Troubles.

Eventually, very much the worse for wear, we brought our young
family of three home to the Highlands.

Here I worked for many years in the civil service, retaining some
sanity by fleeing into the wilderness as often as possible. Eventually I was rescued
by early retirement.

The lochs, hills and glens of Lochaber are like balm to the soul,
and have inspired storytellers for as long as people have lived in these glens.

The Last Sunset
is simply the latest in a long line of
tales inspired by this ancient land.

I will never forget, as a young child,
being scared witless by
Quatermass and the Pit
on my parents’
spluttering black and white TV set. Kids who are used to shoot-em-up computer
games, or the visceral delights of films such as
Saw
, would find
Quatermass
as frightening as an episode of the
Teletubbies
. But to my generation
this was ground-breaking science fiction.

Then came
Doctor Who
, with its cardboard sets and tinfoil
aliens - light years away from the subtle story lines and clever nuances of the
current
Doctor
series.

Star Trek
.
The Twilight Zone
.
The Outer Limits
.
Programmes became more sophisticated, ideas more original and thought
provoking.

Each new concept nourished our imagination and broadened our
young minds. As I grew older I read Isaac Asimov and Robert Heinlein, Arthur C
Clarke and the beautifully expressive Ray Bradbury. The wonderfully quirky
Douglas Adams. Giants in their field.

Over the years there have been so many great books. So many
amazing films. Yet still, in the dead of night, when I think of that creaky,
black and white alien craft buried deep in that pit in London the covers become
pulled around me just that little bit tighter.

Anyone interested in exploring the history of the Highlands will
find John Prebble’s trilogy
Glencoe, Culloden and The Highland Clearances
an excellent place to start. For the more classically minded Robert Louis
Stevenson’s
Kidnapped
retains a power and freshness that is
extraordinary for a book written in the nineteenth century.

Gaelic words and phrases feature prominently in
The Last
Sunset
. My publisher, Tim Taylor, and I were conscious that too many
obscure and unreadable words might discourage readers unfamiliar with the
language. However this was the language spoken throughout the Highlands during
this period, and although Gaelic has suffered a long and steady decline the
last few decades have seen something of a resurgence. This is thanks in no
small measure to musical groups such as Capercaillie and Runrig.

Anyone interested in what a fusion of modern rock and roll and
traditional Gaelic music would sound like should go to YouTube and listen to
some of Runrig’s unique music.
Abhainn An T-Sluaigh
or
Air A’Chuan
would be a good introduction to this underrated band.

In the end, I suppose, this fusion of influences; the past and
the present, ancient and modern, which helped to create the music of Runrig,
also found form in its own small way in
The Last Sunset
.

The Legends of Light
by Gill Shutt

A high fantasy saga told in six poems

“… very refreshing, a completely
different style and format.”
—
SF Book Reviews

“… a cross between Beowulf and Lord of
the Rings.”
—
amazon.com review

Available now as an eBook from
amazon.com
and
amazon.co.uk
and
paperback
.

The Reality War
by Tim C. Taylor

In 1992, Radlan Saravanan runs a small
business out of a Tudor cottage in the sleepy English village of Elstow. But
Radlan was born in 2951, and when he falls in love with a local girl, he has to
choose between running from his own people and condemning his lover to die.

He makes the wrong choice.

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Book1 available now as a Kindle eBook
RRP
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/
£0.77
,
and paperback from Amazon
$9.99
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£7.99
.
Book 2
out
now!

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