The storm comes at them from over the brae. Its rains veer them from the path through the glen and up the side of the hill. They stumble against the high winds. The sky blackens. Through the deluge they see a dark figure on the crest of the hill. As they draw nearer it resolves itself into a small stone tower.
The rain drips in through the leaking roof. They wipe off what water they can and settle in for a long night. They eat a little from their packs. They huddle. They sleep.
Something wakes them. The rain lashes against the stone walls. Tentatively, they stand. Outside, something growls. It isn't the storm.
Paddy Dobson
5th August 2021