gns.theplutopact-第3节

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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　would　have　done　had　he　lived　within　the　bounds　of　a　city；　Edinburgh　or　Glasgow；　instead　of　on　the　outskirts　of　Craiglowrie。　It　was　a　frightening　thought　because　he　knew　he　would　have　had　to　set　fire　to　something。　He　couldn't　live　without　fire；　as　though　he　had　been　spawned　in　hell。
　　
　　The　Balzur　legend　didn't　frighten　Jock…not　one　little　bit。　Balzur　had　been　a　man　of　fire；　and　he'd　died　as　he'd　lived；　not　uttering　a　single　scream　even　when　the　blaze　was　at　its　fiercest；　turning　his　flesh　to　dripping　fat；　like　the　burning　of　a　candle。
　　
　　All　the　same　Jock　wasn't　happy。　With　the　sweet　smell　of　heather　smoke　in　his　nostrils　he　gazed　down　with　smarting　eyes　upon　the　activity　in　the　valley　below　him。　Bulldozers　levelled　the　rugged　terrain；　a　gang　of　men　were　already　erecting　a　high　barbed…wire　fence　around　the　perimeter　of　what　the　Craiglowrie　Herald　announced　would　be　the　most　up…to…date　nuclear　waste　reprocessing　plant　in　the　world。　Coyle；　the　editor；　had　nicknamed　it　'Holocaust'；　and　if　anything　went　wrong　that　was　what　it　would　be；　a　blazing　hell　on　earth。　Jock　conjured　up　a　mental　picture；　sky…high　flames　that　would　light　up　the　sky　for　miles　around；　the　smell　of　burning　flesh　heavy　in　the　atmosphere。　It　wasn't　that　which　worried　him　most；　though；　because　he　didn't　really　understand　anything　about　nuclear　recycling。　It　was　what　these　bastards　were　doing　to　the　valley　that　upset　him。　This　was　just　the　start；　they'd　need　more　and　more　land　and　they'd　take　it　as　they　wanted　it；　regardless　of　sheep　or　grouse　or　the　hill　folk　who　eked　out　a　living　the　simple　way。　One　day　there　would　be　nothing　here　but　barbed…wire　pounds　and　squat　featureless　buildings…like　being　taken　over　by　the　Russians。
　　
　　Jock　coughed　as　some　of　the　smoke　got　down　into　his　lungs。　It　was　sweet；　like　tobacco　smoke；　and　made　him　feel　heady　until　he　couldn't　breathe　and　had　to　back　away　out　of　the　eddying　clouds。　He　wondered　what　would　happen　to　these　slopes　in　years　to　e。　They'd　be　barren…the　moor　above　too…all　incorporated　in　this　latest　foolhardy　venture　by　Man；　the　suicide　course　of　modern　civilization。　It　would　be　nice　to　burn　them　off　now；　whilst　there　was　still　heather　to　burn；　a　kind　of　defiant　gesture　to　this　bureaucracy　which　was　spreading　up　from　south　of　the　border。　They　wanted　barren　landscapes；　then　bloody　well　gi'　it　'em；　a　black　stinking　charred　desert！
　　
　　The　blood　coursed　fiercely　through　Jock　Leggett's　veins；　his　wizened；　weatherbeaten　features　clouded　with　anger；　gnarled　hands　clenched　at　the　tiny　moving　dots　down　below。　The　grouse　and　their　predators　would　be　driven　to　another　habitat；　and　then　another；　and　another；　until　there　was　nowhere　left　for　them　to　go。　Man；　too；　would　bee　an　extinct　species。
　　
　　Jock　had　already　seen　the　best　of　his　life。　Nostalgic　memories　flooded　back：　the　moor　as　it　used　to　be　when　the　gentlemen　shooters　came　by　horse…drawn　carriages　in　the　days　when　his　father　was　gamekeeper　here；　wining　and　dining　in　the　lodges　at　night…lodges　now　fallen　into　decay　because　sportsmen　today　jetted　up　for　a　day's　shooting　and　had　no　time　to　savour　the　other；　more　worthwhile　aspects　of　their　trip。　A　hundred　brace　was　average　for　a　day　then；　now　thirty　was　considered　good。　Leisure　had　been　replaced　by　haste；　an　urgency　to　get　everything　over　and　done　with。　Selfishness　and　greed　。　。　。
　　
　　Yes；　Jock　decided；　today　was　as　good　a　day　as　any　for　a　big　fire；　a　freshening　westerly　wind　to　fan　the　flames；　and　drive　the　blaze　downwards　towards　the　monstrosity　that　was　destroying　the　valley　below。　Sweeping　flames　that　would　destroy　everything　in　their　path。　And　nobody　would　be　able　to　prove　a　thing；　since　dozens　of　muir…burns　got　out　of　control　every　spring。
　　
　　Hidden　by　the　smoke　from　anybody　who　might　be　watching　down　below；　Jock　Leggett　moved　away；　and　picked　out　a　clump　of　gorse　suitable　for　starting　the　big　blaze。　He　dropped　to　his　knees　in　the　heather；　the　matchbox　rattling　in　his　hand。　No　change　of　mind；　no　regrets。　This　was　going　to　be　the　end　of　an　era。　In　a　way　it　was　like　being　God。
　　
　　Some　dead　gorse　flared　and　crackled；　sparks　igniting　several　more　fires　in　the　rough　brown　grass　that　lay　around。　Wisps　of　smoke　thickened。　Soon　rivers　of　flame　merged　into　an　ocean　inferno…roaring　as　the　wind　caught　it。
　　
　　Jock　Leggett　remained　kneeling；　almost　as　though　he　had　not　the　strength　to　struggle　to　his　feet。　And　everywhere　it　had　grown　much　darker；　as　the　thickening　smoke　hung　in　the　sky；　shutting　out　the　sun。　The　blaze　was　really　getting　a　hold　now。　Jock　smiled　feebly　as　he　moved　downhill。　Soon　the　smoke　would　block　out　the　sunlight　from　the　entire　valley…a　hellish　night　in　the　midst　of　day。
　　
　　Let　that　day　be　darkness。　Let　not　God　regard　it　from　above；　neither　let　the　light　shine　upon　it。　Let　darkness　and　the　shadow　of　death　stain　it。　Let　a　cloud　dwell　upon　it。　Let　the　blackness　of　the　day　terrify　it。
　　
　　And　then　came　the　heat；　scorching　the　old　gamekeeper；　smarting　his　eyes　with　a　painful　dryness。　Through　the　billowing　smoke　he　could　clearly　see　a　ten…foot　wall　of　flame…ing　back　towards　him！
　　
　　He　lost　his　balance　as　his　foot　caught　up　in　some　tangled　heather；　and　he　fell　back。　His　mouth　opened　but　the　cry　of　terror　was　no　more　than　a　wheeze。
　　
　　Let　that　day　be　darkness。
　　
　　His　fear　escalated。　The　wind　had　changed　suddenly　to　an　easterly　direction。　No　longer　was　the　blaze　being　carried　down　towards　Craiglowrie。　Instead　it　was　moving　back　uphill；　the　flames　all　around　him　as　they　raced　towards　the　moor　above。
　　
　　Jock　Leggett　closed　his　eyes；　but　he　could　not　shut　out　the　living　hell　all　around　him。　Then　suddenly　he　was　aware　that　he　was　no　longer　alone！
　　
　　A　man　。。。　He　could　see　him　clearly；　seemingly　impervious　to　the　fire　which　raged　about　him。　A　ragged　figure　materialising　out　of　the　black　smoke。　A　face　that　belonged　to　a　corpse　in　the　final　stages　of　decay。　Hairless　and　blackened。　Eyes　that　glowed　brightly；　or　else　reflected　the　inferno　that　surely　must　consume　him　any　moment。　Blistered　lips　stretched　into　a　mirthless　smile　。　。　。　uttering　soundless　words。
　　
　　This