Duntrune Castle
Fall, 1888

Prologue

Though he had no previous experience, dawn seemed a propitious hour to Bishop Mapleton for conducting an exorcism.

It wasn't that he wished to perform this act. He was a kindly man, a good master, a doting grandfather. And he was fully aware that the Episcopal Church frowned upon any unsanctioned practice of such unconventional ceremonies--but with the discovery of those handless bones under the dressing room floor of his castle and the renewal of the infernal playing, rumored to have been heard by the castle's owners in centuries past from up in the battlements above the master's bedroom--he had to do something! The household staff was thoroughly sick of hearing those damned ghostly bagpipes playing Piobaireachd- dhun-Naomhaig to a bloody Colonsay Loyalist who had been dead two centuries and more. One hysterical housemaid had already resigned her position and now the cook was threatening to leave as well.

Mapleton had tried prayer, and Christian burial, and even reasoned conversation with the entity which plagued his household. All to no avail. Every sunrise... every sunset... the piper's warning to his master rang out from the castle walls, the indictment of its faulty metre there for everyone to hear.
Well, he had had enough! The reproach was completely misdirected. None of the dead piper's ills was of his doing, he assured himself, casting an uneasy glance at the ancient banner of the Campbell that hung in his hall. The ugly boar's head, bathed in moonlight, seemed to glare at him with its little, enraged eyes.

"Utter nonsense," he muttered, walking hurriedly away from the tusked swine.

And if this playing kept up he would be made a laughing stock. He was a Bishop! He didn't have to tolerate some damned Papist ghost rousting him out of bed every bloody morning.

Still, it was a sensitive matter, likely to provoke gossip with the locals who were sympathetic to the ghost. So without explaining why, he had ordered a watch to be kept and that the chapel bells were to toll a death knell upon the first showing of dawnlight in the Eastern sky. Fearful of over-sleeping, he had chosen to remain awake the entire night through with only a decanter of brandy and a Bible for companions.

Now he waited nervously in the cold and dark. As soon as the solemn peal began, he lighted the candles on his impromptu altar and opened his prayer book. It was too dark to read, but that was no hindrance; he had the passages memorized.

Feeling somewhat awkward, and hoping that he would not be discovered by his staff or congregation in what felt somehow like a vulgar act, he began reciting quietly and hurriedly:

Most Glorious Prince of the Heavenly Armies, defend us against the spirits of wickedness in high places. The Lord has trusted the souls of the redeemed to be led into heaven. We offer our prayers to the Most High, that without delay they may draw down His mercy upon us, and take hold of this pipe-playing serpent and cast him and his bagpipes into the bottomless pit

Mapleton looked about uneasily, but could see no one nearby to witness his actions. He blew a warming breath over his naked fingers and went on:

His enemies are scattered. As smoke is driven away so are they driven; as wax melts before the fire, so the wicked perish in the presence of The Lord. We drive you from us, unclean, cacophonous spirits. Begone! I command thee

His last syllable had not yet died away when the sun burst full over the horizon and the sound of mournful bagpipes could be heard droning to life up in the empty, grey battlements. Apparently, his application of the old ceremony and moving the bones away from the castle hadn't worked.

Mottled with rage and frustration, the Bishop barely restrained himself from hurling his prayer book at the invisible spirit.

"Bloody damned Papist! Don't you know you've lost the war? King Charles is dead! The MacColla's dead--and so are you!" His voice trembled with outrage and he snatched up the brandy decanter, for a moment unsure whether to drink the contents or throw them.

Reason prevailed. Brandy was expensive and the decanter was a particularly fine one purchased in London by his father when he was being presented with honors at Oxford in 1857.

"Stubborn, bloody ghost," he muttered. "But there must be something that will silence you."

As Mapleton stalked towards his library, drawing deeply from the imported spirits--without a glass as he had left it behind in his agitation-- he began to wonder if some other unseen agent of greater and darker power was at work in his home. After all, something had prompted him to wantonly spend hard-earned money to remove a perfectly sound floor in his dressing room and turn this most grievous ghost loose upon the castle.

Maybe it was time for him to consult with old Andro, the grave-digger. The man was a fool, but he knew more about highland lore than anyone in Kilmartin; drastic situations called for drastic measures, he assured himself. Something had to be done!