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You； too； Witchfinder！
He spurred its flanks； knowing he could not stop the horse even if he wanted to； and crouching low over its neck； he thundered past the scattered hovels of Craiglowrie； the place now cursed by Balzur as he traded his soul for revenge upon his executioners。
Galloping through the night； the mare found its own path； slewing violently in places and almost throwing its rider。 On； on…far beyond the glow of the dying fire now reflecting on the mountain slopes above the village。
Then suddenly the night sky was lit up with dazzling brilliance…a shooting ball of fire that seared the eyeballs； a brightness impossible to shut out。 The Witchfinder felt his steed rear； knew that he was airborne； somersaulting； flying。 Falling。 A sickening crunch that seemed to break every bone in his body； then he was lying there blinded by fiery explosions that threatened to shatter his skull。 Screaming for mercy until his voice was no more than a hoarse whisper。
Then came the pain with all its excruciating force； a burning that he had him gasping for water。 Somewhere he could smell smoke…but that was impossible because he had covered many miles and Balzur's funeral pyre was far behind。
You； too； Witchfinder！
Oh God； the pain！ His lungs racked him with every wheezing breath。 He couldn't move； every limb was contorted with agony。 And he could not get that face out of his mind； the cursing lips； the searching eyes。 None would be spared。
And the Witchfinder knew that he was going to die。 His body burned and yet there was no fire。 Scorching heat and dancing flames。 And Balzur still cursing； pursuing him into the black void of unconsciousness。
It was three days before the villagers emerged from their homes and crept towards the burned patch where Balzur's dwelling had stood。 Past the ashes of the fire in which the ogre of Craiglowrie had perished； the blackened skeleton scarcely distinguishable from the charred branches of the old oak。
Shivering on a damp misty morning； but not because of the cold； they stood some fifty yards away from the blackened ruin； saw the heap of fallen stones that had once been walls； the timbers reduced to powdered ash。
And something else 。。。 an object roughly the size of a large tombstone embedded in the ground where once the door had stood。 Uneven yet smooth and shining； glinting with a coppery colour as the first rays of the morning sun penetrated the swirling mist。 Once they glanced at it they had to keep on looking； as though it was an eye that held them with a hypnotic stare。
As the sun rose； the mist vanished； but still they continued to stand there。 So warm； like the glow of embers when the fire has died down。 Getting warmer； the longer they stood there； until they began to sweat。
They assured each other that the strange heat came from the ashes…that beneath them the fire still burned and would continue to do so for weeks like the moorland fires in dry summers。 But it was evening before they finally returned to their bothies and told their families what they had seen。 And each of them vowed never to return to that awful place again； remembering Balzur's curse and his pact with Pluto。
Winter came with its howling blizzards； and deep snows that buried Craiglowrie； the villagers remaining in their cottages from November until the following March。 And； as always； the winter brought its own deaths； the sick and infirm unable to survive the cold in spite of their incessant peat fires。
By February there were fifteen corpses awaiting burial； strong men who had died in indescribable agony in the claustrophobic blackness of their tomb…like homes； pleading for water as their bodies burned with festering rashes； wasting away in frenzied delirium。
Finally the snows began to melt and in the first week of April a tragic； fearful column of Craiglowrie's survivors wound its way up towards the foot of the mountain。 The ascent up to where Balzur's cottage had once stood was treacherous yet they had to see； curiosity overing their terror in the bright sunlight。
They stood there aghast； huddled together for safety； the sweat on their bodies turning icy。
'May God have mercy on us 。。。 and on all the people of Craiglowrie！' The ageing clergyman closed his eyes and prayed that the sinister blackened square which harboured not a flake of snow amidst the mountain drifts would disappear by the time he looked again。 But it did not。
'It's 。 。 。 gone！' a shaking hand pointed to the place where a heap of rubble had once marked the site of the black magician's hovel。 In its place was a gaping hole that seemed to drop on down into the bowels of the earth。 None dared step forward to ascertain its depth。 A yawning black pit had swallowed up both the stonework and the thunderbolt that had e in answer to Balzur's curse。 Pluto had sent his messenger of destruction and； once its work was done； it had sunk back down to the underworld！
The villagers returned to their homes in terror； never daring to venture back up that hillside again…for when the lush summer growth began it was only too plain to see that not a single shoot of heather nor blade of grass grew on that
spot they now called 'Pluto's Patch'。
And from that time onwards； according to legend； the people of Craiglowrie died terrible deaths； with a disease that spread over their bodies in burning rashes。 But always a few survived…enough to transmit the curse through the following centuries。 Then finally none remained； just a ghost village where strange lights in the sky and burning heath fires were reported by wandering shepherds in search of missing sheep。
Towards the end of the nineteenth century； a town was built on the site of Craiglowrie's dereliction。 New people moved in； and if perchance they heard stories of Balzur and the Witchfinder； they scoffed and dismissed these tales as folklore which had no part in a modern world。 And in a growing population a few deaths went virtually unnoticed 。 。 。
Chapter 1
Muir…burning time； mid…February when the heather is brittle after a dry spell； the old growth igniting easily and the fire spreading； leaving in its wake a charred and ugly landscape。 But only a temporary disfiguration of Nature's kingdom； for within weeks the new growth will sprout lush and green； tender shoots for the hungry grouse to devour； cover in which to hatch their young； hidden from the sharp eye of the gliding buzzard or eagle； safety from the prowling fox。
Moorland fires had their own special fascination for Jock Leggett。 The dancing orange tongues； the way they ate up everything in their path； a leaping tide of destruction； crackling and hissing like an army of angry dragons； thwarted when they reached the fire…break which Jock had carefully scythed around the patch to be burned。 Then he began all over again； working zestfully so that from his croft that night he could gaze out upon the big squares of smouldering ashes and know that it was all his own work。 It crossed his mind once what he woul