Sebastian Smirch was already regretting coming to the Isle of Skye. He was not a nature person. 

He loved cities. The noise, the people, the tall buildings, the vast range of restaurants, pubs and clubs and all the different performing arts. Not that he visited many of them as his job as an accountant kept him very busy. 

When he was in the middle of auditing a company he often worked 12 hours or more at a stretch, poring through columns of figures to find those little inconsistencies that meant someone was being less than honest, or simply incompetent. Either way it gave him great joy to report the problem – however small – to his employer, knowing that someone was in trouble. 

One of the sad idiots who had been fired had the nerve to complain to him that he was just trying to do a good job for the company – a firm making respirators for the NHS – and it was a simple mistake. Why was he persecuting him when Sebastian had never contributed to a business making or doing anything and spent his time and energy hurting people who did? Sebastian had to tell him that was not the point. Those who can do, but if they didn’t do it properly he was there to point it out. 

Now he was stuck here on this godforsaken island after an endless journey by train, bus and ferry to audit the books of a whisky distillery where there was nothing to do outside of work (apart from sample the goods of the company and he never mixed business with pleasure). He may choose not to do anything to entertain himself when he was working but that was precisely the point. He was making a choice rather than having the lack of entertainment thrust upon him.

He could see the island was beautiful if you liked all of that unspoilt nature with its hills and rivers – especially now in summer – but it was something he never really cared for. It simply wasn’t orderly, unlike a good column of figures which added up perfectly. That was his idea of beauty.

The owner was a short red haired man with some name that was both unpronounceable and unspellable. He had an accent that was unbearable and his workforce seemed unspeakable – judging from the grunts that greeted Sebastian as he went into the small office smelling of barley and yeast to pore over the handwritten account books. This was the 21^st century – shouldn’t they have transferred everything across to computers? The only saving grace was that they were filled in a fine copperplate script that was easy to read. Strangely the hand did not seem to have altered from the very first account books started nearly three hundred years earlier. Perhaps there was a very strict school which taught generations of the family to write in the same flowing letters and numbers. 

The accounts looked depressingly well kept but Sebastian was sure he would find a mistake if he looked hard enough. The lack of computerised records was a problem, though, as it meant he had to stay in the cramped office with the invasive smell of alcohol. He was not a drinker – even when his wife had left him he had not taken to the bottle – just the spreadsheet. After four hours he was starting to feel giddy. He also thought he had started to see things. Just movements on the periphery of his vision, at first. Strange small shapes scuttling around the edges of the room. Perhaps they had mice or rats – that would make sense with all the grain around the distillery. What really worried him was when he started to see them in the air out of the corner of his eyes. Bats as well?

It was worrying either way, so he decided to break the habit of a lifetime and go for a walk in the fresh air. There was a pamphlet dispenser by the entry to the distillery for visitors and he found a guide to easy walks on Skye.

There seemed to be lots of landmarks on the island associated with fairies. The closest seemed to be Dunvegan Castle where the fairy wife of the head of the MacLeod Clan gave a magic flag to her husband before returning to her homeland, which would summon her back in times of trouble. Sebastian thought the only flag his ex wife would respond to was the white flag of surrender. He would never raise that. He was, of course, always right. Just look at his success in spotting other people’s mistakes – especially hers. If only she had accepted that simple fact he may have allowed her to stay, although she claimed it was her decision to leave. Wrong again, Naomi.

It was a comparatively gentle walk to Dunvegan Castle and Sebastian had to cross the so called Fairy Bridge. As he walked over the stone structure he thought he saw those flying things at the edge of his vision again. Probably birds this time. None he recognised, although to be honest the only avian species he could identify positively were pigeons, seagulls, sparrows, and starlings. Whatever these things were, they were more brightly coloured than those creatures. They were very fast and if he turned to look more closely, they moved with his head so they were always at the periphery. Damned things.

The castle was quite impressive, if you liked that sort of thing. However Sebastian was delighted when he spotted several spelling mistakes in the signs which told him more than he wanted to know about the MacLeod Clan and the 13^th century building. Apparently it was a member of the family who had founded the distillery where he was working. 

A brisk walk back to the office and his head was a lot clearer. It would be sensible to ration his exposure to the alcohol fumes, however, as he didn’t want to make any mistakes, or fail to spot those of others, so he decided to head back to his lodgings. This was a small bed and breakfast owned by the sister of the distillery’s head man. There was a distinct family resemblance, although thankfully her accent was less impenetrable. Probably because she had to moderate it to communicate with visitors. She offered him coffee with lots of cream and lots of sugar, but he declined and asked for tap water instead.

“I hope you enjoy your stay,” she said as she showed him to his dated but clean and comfortable room. “Skye is a beautiful island. I wouldnae live anywhere else.”

“Do you have wifi?” Sebastian enquired. 

“Oh no, there’s not much call for it here. Most of my guests are here to get away from such things and enjoy nature. Birdwatching and the like.”

Sebastian frowned. This was turning out to be even more of a God forsaken hell hole than he had anticipated.

Although he was not much for small talk, he decided he had better at least make an attempt if he was going to spend a lot of time in this lady’s company.

“I saw some very colourful birds when I went out for a walk,” he said. “Up near the castle.”

“What did they look like?” His landlady cocked her head quizzically.

“I didn’t get a really good look at them,” he replied. “They were very fast and always seemed to be behind me or at the sides of my head, whichever way I turned.”

“Ah, those will be the fairies,” she said.

Sebastian’s disdain must have been obvious on his face. He had never been good at hiding what was going through his mind.

“I can see you are not a believer,” she said. “Not that it matters to them. They are just as happy existing whether we believe in them or not.”

“And I suppose all these myths and legends don’t do your trade any harm,” Sebastian said. 

“Aye, there are lots of people come to see the places where the wee folk live. The Fairy Glen, the Fairy Pools, the Fairy Knoll. They’re harmless of course – the fairies, not the visitors. Just a wee bit mischievous. They like to lead people a bit of a dance. Not like the Glaistig, although he’s not been seen for many years.”

“And what on Earth, or off it, is the Glaistig.”

“I hope you never find out,” his landlady said. “It’s a fearsome creature. Like a giant black howling goat. It haunts the hills – especially near The Old Man of Storr and the Sornaichean Coir’ Fhinn. The giants who used to live here were supposed to keep them as pets, like we keep dogs. The giants are gone now, of course, but their devil goats still live and hang round their old homes looking for their masters.”

They were all mad on this island, thought Sebastian. Probably inbred. That’ll be why they all have the same look about them. The ones he had met so far, anyway. 

It took him eight hours to go through the most recent books the next day – with a ten minute break every hour to get the smell of distilling whisky out of his nose. But he had triumphed. There was a mistake. A difference between the quantity of bottles produced and the number sold. Not much – just one bottle of their premium blend a year. A triumph nonetheless. That would put the wind up that little owner.

“Tha’s no a mistake, tha’s the tribute,” he said when Sebastian confronted him. “We’ve done it for hundreds of years. Ever since we began.”

“And what do you get in return,” Sebastian asked. “Whatever it is should be recorded somewhere. This is most irregular.”

“It’s nae irregular here,” the man said. “And it’s not so much what we get for it as what we avoid. We would nae be able to do business if we didn’t pay the tribute.”

“You mean it’s like protection money?”

“I suppose, we dinnae see it that way though.”

“Then I need to speak to whoever gets this tribute,” said Sebastian in his best angry auditor voice. “You cannot allow this to continue. It’s criminal activity and it has to stop.”

“That mebbe a bit difficult,” said the man. “They don’t really like people to see them.”

“Well they will see me. Being an auditor is almost like being a policeman. I demand you take me to them at once.”

The manager shrugged and gestured towards the door. After Sebastian had exited he followed and then scuttled round in front to lead the way along the path that led up to the hill overlooking the distillery.

“On your own head be it,” the man muttered as he strode up the path.

Sebastian was glad he avoided the Tube and buses in favour of walking in London, as the way was quite steep and the manager clambered up it like a mountain goat. Even so the auditor was quite out of breath when they breasted the top of the hill and looked down to a deep hollow covered in lush vegetation surrounding a series of pools fed by waterfalls from the steep cliffs. He fought to steady his breathing and coughed as the smell of heather was dragged into his lungs.

“The Fairy Pools,” the manager said, although to be honest he could have said “you’re fairly fooled” for all Sebastian could interpret through the impenetrable brogue. 

Sebastian peered over the edge. It was a long way down. He was turning to ask the manager why he had brought him to this remote spot when the man pushed him in the chest and he plunged backwards over the cliff.

Sebastian’s first emotion was indignation. How dare he? Did he not know who he was dealing with? It was only after a second or so he started to feel fear. He could feel the air whistling past his ears with a whoosh, but there was no actual sensation of falling – perhaps because he was looking upwards at the unchanging sky so had no reference point for his brain. If he twisted his neck so his chin rested on his collar bone he could see the cliffs. This was ridiculous. His life counted. It could not be thrown away like this. 

Above him he could see those darting birds again, spiralling in a mad circle as if they were playing an airborne game of catch. Fairies indeed. And that was the last thing he thought as his back touched one of the pools.

But instead of the bang of water and a splash or erupting liquid, there was a soft sensation as if he had landed on the most comfortable bed imaginable. Was this his dying brain tricking him? He had never believed in heaven or hell, but God must be like fairies – he still existed even if you didn’t acknowledge his reality. If this was heaven it was no more than he deserved and seemed quite nice, although there was still too much greenery for his taste. 

He sat up, taking in the myriad of colourful flowers and verdant plants that surrounded him. The air was full of floral scents as if he had landed in a perfumery. The ground beneath his buttocks was soft and yielding with an underlying firmness that allowed him to stand up easily. He was turning round to take in the landscape – there must be some cafes or at least a Pret a Manger around somewhere if this was heaven – when he noticed those strange birds again. 

This time they were moving where he could see them rather than at the sides of his vision. It was still hard to focus as they moved too fast, but from the fleeting glimpses he could see they were not birds. They were little people with wings and flowing flimsy clothes. Perhaps he was unconscious and dreaming this, but they did seem to be fairies. 

The largest of the flying figures – his auditor’s brain estimated it at around two and a half inches in length – hovered about two feet in front of his face. It then started to grow – feet stretching down to the ground with the enlarging face staying level with his own. After a few seconds the figure was around Sebastian’s own height. He noticed a close resemblance to the owner of the distillery and his landlady cousin, although the fairy was more attractive. In fact (he? she?) was very attractive in a metrosexual way. Sebastian was guessing male judging from the figure, but its flowing multicoloured clothes could belong to either gender. The rainbow colours and androgynous good looks did have a whiff of LGBTQ+ about them. Not that he was prejudiced – he was an equal opportunities misanthropist.

“Are you the person in charge?” Sebastian asked in his most authoritative voice. “There are some serious issues I need to discuss.”

He was still not sure where he was, or even if he was dead or alive, but it was important to stay in control. No matter how “Life On Mars” this was all seeming (a programme he thought would have been improved if they had lost that namby pamby John Simm character) he had to act as if it was real and maintain his purpose.

“We are aware of what you want, Mr Smirch,” the figure said in a voice that had the Scottish lilt but the clear pronunciation of a BBC announcer. “I am not who you need to speak to, but I will take you to our King. In the meantime, can I offer you some refreshment?”

Without Sebastian being aware of it, a table had appeared at his side laden with food and drink. It all looked too rich and fancy for his taste, however. You could never be sure about foreign food, and this was foreign to anything he had ever had before.

“No thank you,” he said. “Business before pleasure. Besides, I would not like anyone to think I was susceptible to any kind of inducement. One must preserve professional ethics.”

The fairy smiled. “Perhaps later. After you have concluded your business. I will take you to the Seelie Court.”

As the fairy beckoned Sebastian to follow him the accountant had time to take in some of the other creatures who had flanked the envoy. They were not all the same and not all attractive – in fact some were quite ugly with misshapen bodies and large heads. Others had only one of everything – one leg, one arm, one ear and one eye. Some had no legs. Many wore felt hats in a variety of colours. Most were on the land but others peeped at Sebastian from the pools around the edge of the clearing or from behind trees. 

The majority stayed behind when the envoy and Sebastian walked out of the clearing along a path between bright flowers, but others followed slyly at a distance, dodging in and out of cover as Sebastian glanced back at them. This made him very nervous, but he was determined not to show it. He had walked through groups of youths on his way home and found keeping his eyes straight forward and his back straight dissuaded them from engaging in “banter” or pulling out the knives he was sure they kept in their pockets. 

It wasn’t just the psychedelic colours and engulfing greenery that put Sebastian on edge. It was the smells – rich, fertile, cloying and intoxicating. They made the stench of distilling whisky seem wholesome. He was as light headed as if he had stuck his face inside one of the vats and breathed deeply. There may be some hedonists who would have revelled in this, but for him it was all too invasive. It was forcing him to participate in this olfactory overdose – he had been dragged to an orgy of smell and colour against his will.

He arrived at a clearing surrounded by thrones – each with their own bower of exotic blooms framing the fairies who sat there. He noticed there was one of each different type of creature he had seen in this unholy place. 

In the centre there was one of those preternaturally pretty beings with a crown of gold studded with sapphires and rubies of enormous size. There was no doubt who was the head of this court, and Sebastian shook himself down to clear his head and strode across the clearing to stand before the throne. He wasn’t sure of the social conventions, but then he was never one for bowing to them, or anyone. If someone offered a handshake he would ignore it, and would always sit in the tallest seat whether or not he had been invited to do so. There was no way he was going to allow this unnatural creature any power over him. 

“Are you the person, fairy, or whatever you are, that has been receiving the so called “tribute” from the Distillery?” Sebastian asked in his most authoritative voice.

“We are,” said the King of the Fairies in a mellifluous voice. It was the sound of honey and velvet and the caress of a warm bath. It was the voice of a politician or televangelist at their most persuasive. “We have been receiving our annual offering since the first bottles were filled. It is merely a token in return for our blessing on the output. No-one has ever questioned this. It is, after all, merely a courtesy within the family.”

So there was some kinship between these creatures and the manager. Not that it made any difference. Unless this being was listed as a director and the bottle of whisky was properly accounted for as part of its salary or dividend, it was an illegal payment. And Sebastian had, of course, checked on this and found no paper trail.

“All gifts must be accounted for in the records,” said Sebastian. “Have you been registering this in your own tax returns? If this has been going on for hundreds of years at a retail cost of £50 per bottle you must owe at least £7,500 in back tax. And I am sure the distillery will also not have accounted for the duty and VAT on those bottles which makes them criminally liable. These are very serious offences which I have no option but to report to the appropriate authorities.”

“But you are forgetting,” the King said, “we do not live in your country. We are an independent nation which merely happens to share a border with the world you live in.”

“Another infraction, then. Have there been export and import taxes paid on this whisky? Do you even have an appropriate trade agreement with United Kingdom? And if, as you say, some of the inhabitants on Skye are your relatives, do they have leave to remain as foreign nationals? What documentation do they have? The fact they have lived in the UK all of their lives is no guarantee they are allowed to stay there. Look at the Windrush generation. They are almost certainly illegal immigrants and I will have to report them to the Home Office.”

By now, most CEOs would have been at least stirred, if not shaken. However that infuriating smile was still on the King’s face.

“And how exactly will you make these reports?” he said. “Do you have any idea of the way home? We are not exactly in the Shengen area. You may only leave if I decide to allow you to do so.”

Sebastian paused for a second. Technically, the King was right. At least on that one point. Sebastian, of course, was correct on everything else. This was quite a large point, however, and he may have to break the habit of a lifetime and negotiate. Not back down, it must be understood, just exercise some flexibility. 

He pursed his lips, and tried to bend his normally straight line thinking into some kind of curve. It was hard work, and he picked up a glass of what looked like water from the table in front of him to drink. It would give him a few more seconds to think about options. He was right again – it was water, but perhaps the most delicious he had ever tasted.

“It may be we have been looking at this from not quite the correct angle,” Sebastian said. “I don’t suppose you have charitable status? Perhaps as some kind of religion? That would allow them to write it off as a donation.”

“We are definitely not charitable,” the King said with his smile changing into a smirk. 

“Perhaps some kind of external expert? With the bottle some sort of ex gratia payment?”

“Unfortunately our expertise is not one that is widely recognised or acknowledged outside of a small number of true believers.”

“Waste disposal?”

“We are quite good at disposing of things that are unwanted in such a way that they never trouble anyone again, but I am not sure that is what you mean.”

“Waste disposal may be a way of dealing with this, then,” said Sebastian. “Perhaps as some kind of community service. We may have to provide some kind of paper trail to satisfy the government, but I am sure the distillery will have some commercial lawyers they can consult to devise some suitable working. If you return me at once, I can talk to them and put things in motion.”

The King smirked again, and Sebastian could see the beings on the other thrones also display signs of mirth.

“Ah, now, there is a problem with that,” the King said. “As you remember you were offered some refreshment when you entered our realm, and you have recently availed yourself of that offer. It is one of the immutable laws of this place that anyone who takes refreshment is no longer allowed to leave.”

Sebastian was appalled.

“That was not made clear to me.”

“As I am sure you are aware from your own homeland, ignorance of the law is no excuse. I am afraid we may not allow you to leave. It is not simply a legal issue, our laws are built into the very fabric of our existence. And now yours.”

The duplicitous scoundrels, thought Sebastian. How dare they trick him through some technicality. That was his job.

“I must protest,” he said. “I demand to see the British consulate.”

The fairies were now laughing loudly on their thrones. The smaller ones were shaking so hard they were in danger of falling from their seats.

“We do not have any diplomatic relations with any foreign power,” said the King. “The only formal relationship we have is with the Unseelie Court, and they are far from diplomatic. Most bothersome in fact.”

Perhaps this was a chink in the system.

“Then perhaps you can refer this case to their jurisdiction for judgement,” said Sebastian.

The laughter got louder, until the King raised his right hand and the whole court fell silent.

“The mortal has placed himself into the power of the Unseelie Court,” he said. “I declare this to be the case, and absolve this court of any further involvement or responsibility. Let him be transported to the place of judgement.”

There was a flash of white before Sebastian’s eyes, accompanied by a fanfare of trumpets and a strong smell of sulphur. Then a moment of complete darkness, and then he was standing back at the top of the cliffs he had been pushed from before his visit to the Fairy Kingdom.

Excellent, he thought. This Unseelie Court were obviously sensible people, or things, or whatever. As he had guessed, there was no love lost between them and the fairies and they had returned him so he could bring the full force of HMRC, Customs and Excise, and the Home Office to bear on their rival’s distillery. Perhaps they had also wanted some kind of tribute which they had been denied and now wanted to make Sebastian the agent of their revenge. Well, he was more than happy to oblige. He would go back down the hill forthwith and unleash the hell of bureaucracy on the unsuspecting whisky makers.

He turned round with a determined spin on his heel and prepared to march back down the track. As his left foot moved forward to start he froze in place as he saw what was standing in front of him. 

It was three times the size of a dray horse, black as a starless night, with viciously sharp curling horns on its head. Although it was clearly some kind of goat, it sat on its haunches like the picture of Baphomet he had once seen on some dodgy internet site. Its hair was patchy and wiry and looked like brillo pads. The creature’s eyes were the size of dinner plates and glowed bright red. Its chest was puffing rapidly in and out and spurts of steam or smoke were jetting from its nostril with each breath. 

For some reason he could not understand, the only thing he could say was: “Good doggy.” He didn’t think it would work.

He was right. The creature started to move forward – at first slowly, then building up speed until it was galloping towards him. 

Sebastian’s feet were stuck to the ground. Literally – the grass and gorse had grown and wrapped around his ankles, anchoring him to the spot. He tried to pull his ankles free but they were caught more tightly than you would imagine grass could grip. 

He was still struggling to get free as the beast’s giant head crashed into his chest, ripping him free from his constraints and propelling him over the cliff.

This time, he didn’t think he would have a soft landing.

[Tim Newton Anderson is a former journalist who has placed more than forty stories in a variety of genres and outlets in the three years he has been writing fiction. He is a member of the London Institute of ‘Pataphysics and when not writing he sings and plays guitar and blues harmonica.]