When Robert Louis Stevenson sketches a map for stepson Sam, a life-changing story and adventure in pursuit of buried treasure—and the mystical Jen Hawkins—begins in the Cairngorms.

Extract taken from Finding Treasure Island
By Robin Scott-Elliot
Published by Cranachan Publishing

This is the story Jen told me of that dark night. I’ve tried to write it down just as I remember it. She spoke quickly, as if she wanted the telling over and done with.

It was closing time at the Inn when she noticed an old man by the fire, a walking stick leant against his chair. She’d never seen him before. He looked asleep but as she put her hand out to shake his shoulder, his eyes opened.

‘You looked into them an there was no end. Like you could fall into them an sink forever. His clothes were… I’d never seen clothes like that, worn through. I asked if he was all right. He took my hand in his, it was like ice. “Warm yourself up, I’ll get you something tae eat,” I told him.

‘But he didn’t let go. I tried to pull my hand away an he held on. That frightened me. Just a bit. Then he spoke, dead soft, lips barely moving. He said he’d been watching me. I didn’t like that, tried to pull my hand away again but I couldn’t, this wee, auld man, skin an bones, had a grip like the devil.

‘An he said my name… “Jen Hawkins.” How did he ken my name? He pulled me down til my ear was near his mouth an he whispered. Whispered he was no long for the world an he had to tell me…’

‘Tell you what?’ I couldn’t help butting in.

Jen’s voice dropped to a whisper of her own as she recited the words the old man told her, the tale of Auchterhouse’s treasure and the riddle.

Jen leaned forward, eyes pinned on me.

‘I’m going to solve the riddle,’ she said. ‘I drew a map of everything hereabouts. I asked all the auld people if there was any place I should add, any places o which tales were told.’

She reached into the pocket on the side of her pinafore and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She handed it to me.

‘I can’t do it on my own. I’ve tried but I get nowhere or I get scared. It’s scary work looking fae buried treasure, always looking over your shoulder.’

‘Why me?’

She shrugged. ‘I trust you.’

I unfolded the map. She’s a fine hand—not as good as Luly—but still, this was a good map, full of detail.

‘All we have to do is find a place to put the X,’ I said.

‘The what?’

‘The X—treasure is always marked with an X on a map.’

‘It is?’

I nodded.

‘I’ve no finished the story,’ she said, taking the map back and sliding it into her pocket. ‘I asked the auld one where his story came from—like you asked me—an he fixed those eyes on me fur the last time an said in that whisper …’

Jen closed her eyes and her hands found mine as she recited the old man’s words… ‘”The Laird of Auchterhouse told me himself. His last words as I held him dying on the field o Sheriffmuir. I’ve been looking ever since an now my time is done—so it’s fur you. You’re o the forest, it should be yours. Be careful who you share this wi. Treasure makes monsters o men”.’

She shuddered and let go of my hands. I pushed myself to my feet, stepped away from the tree, away from Jen, shaking my head.

‘No, no, that can’t be… that would make him… no, that’s not right, can’t be.’

‘Aye, nearly 200 hundred years old.’ She shrugged again, looking up at me. ‘I went tae get him some broth. When I came back he was away. Nobody saw him go. Someone said they heard a stick tapping up the road. Never saw him again.’

‘No, that’s not possible.’

‘Aye, it is. I think he was a ghost. There are Jacobite ghosts all over the Inn. You can sense them.’

‘Ghosts can’t speak.’

She pursed her lips.

‘D’you bring it?’

‘What?’

‘The timepiece—that pocket watch you said you had?’

‘But Jen—’

‘The timepiece, we need it.’

I slipped my hand inside my jacket, found the chain and pulled out the watch. I clicked open the cover, tapped the glass, held it to her ear. My father gave it to me. It didn’t always work but today it ticked away.

‘Aye, so we’ve no long—we should run. The riddle says the hour before midday, we have to be at the Hanging Tree fur eleven. You manage that, Yankee doodle?’

‘Course I can. Jen?’

‘Aye?’

‘You sure about this?’ There was no sense in what she’d told me. None of it. A 200-year-old man? A ghost?

She glanced behind us yet again. ‘What have we got to lose? Nobody else knows—the riddle is ours tae solve.’

‘What if the ghost comes back? The tapping—I thought I heard it, a few nights ago.’

‘Why would he do that?’

This time it was my turn to shrug. No sense at all. The sun was shining above the trees but it was chilly in the woods.

‘Let’s run,’ I said and took off.

Finding Treasure Island by Robin Scott-Elliot is published by Cranachan, priced £7.99.