Lost Souls

Prologue

Perched on a low branch, peering down at the foot of the tree, sat an enormous black crow.
Its feathers were black as the deepest ocean, and the night's cool breeze rippled hypnotically through them, as the moons reflection danced across its wings.   
The giant bird tilted its head first one way and then the other, as it took in the sudden movements around the base of the pine tree it had lived in for as long as it could remember. The branches that might have obscured the birds view had been stripped bare by the ferociously strong winter gales that had eaten across the Scottish Highlands, turning small plants, and the head's of flowers into a rainbow of multi-coloured confetti, and laying flat, anything not strong enough to withstand the assault.    
At the foot of the trunk an elderly man, dressed in scruffy winter clothing, was muttering to himself as he carefully dug around a root as wide as an elephants leg. The soil was damp, and a rich, musky aroma soon filled the air.   
The disturbance to the ground would provide supper for the crow, and his dark, bleak, bead like eyes studied the broken ground intently, watching for any subtle movement from the worms he would devour as soon as the man returned home.   
The moon hung low in an otherwise blank sky, looking alone, as if someone had stolen the stars. Despite this, shards of bright light caressed the silver dagger the old man was using to cut his way through the sticky wet soil. He cursed repeatedly as he sliced his way towards his goal, removing thick slabs of earth with the keenness of a young child dishing out slices of a birthday cake.   
The old man inhaled sharply, filling his overworked lungs with enough fresh air to keep him moving. The cold bit into his upper nostrils and he coughed sharply, as the smells of damp soil, fallen pine needles, and the scented aromas of wild heather and gorse flooded his senses.   
It seemed to him that he was growing older quicker now with each passing year, and the task was proving to be a harder and more difficult venture than it had first been years earlier.    Finally, after what seemed an age, he was down to the last few inches covering his goal. Discarding the blade, he used his long bony fingers to reveal his hidden secrets.   
Above, the crow grew impatient and cawed loudly. Startled, the old man glanced upwards, and angrily swore at the bird. He scanned the ground around him, until he spotted a stone large enough to scare the onlooker away. As he stood slowly, various joints popped in annoyance, having been forced to remain in the same position for so long. He gingerly rubbed the base of his spine, as he caressed the smooth object in his palm. Glancing towards the crow again, the old man grinned with satisfaction.    
The wind suddenly picked up, and a strong gust blew the last few, thinning strands of his snow white hair across his face. Briskly the old man tried to flatten them back into place, but he was fighting a losing battle. His temper rose to almost fever pitch, and he raised his arm above his head, and threw the stone with all his might at the still cawing crow. The large bird saw it coming, shrieked in annoyance, and fluttered higher up into the tree.    Below the old man grinned in victory. Nothing would be allowed to disturb his weekly activities. The delay however had caused a problem. With the wind growing stronger with each passing minute, and the night chills biting deeper into his almost transparent skin, he was finding it more and more difficult to locate his prize. The dirt smelt stronger the deeper he dug. Muskier and decayed like the inside of an ancient tomb, and the damp clung to flesh, and nibbled on the tips of his fingers as he finally uncovered a metal box.Smugly, he pushed his hands under the box and carefully pulled it free. Rustling from above grated his nerves, and he shot a look to see what was causing the fresh disturbance. The large crow was back on the original branch, and briefly the old man had the strangest feeling that the bird knew that what he was doing was wrong. He involuntarily shuddered, and tried to control his shaking hands.   

"I'm going to come back with a shotgun my friend," the old man spat, before he produced a small key from the inside pocket of his well worn, green tweed jacket, and opened the pair of padlocks that secured the box.  Placing these to one side, he opened the lid and looked inside. Immediately the crow, the cold and any discomfort he'd felt disappeared, and for the first time in days he smiled. Life in the countryside was a grand affair, and as he continued with his task, the old man's smile grew wider.