The moon was full and casting its silvery rays down on the mist-shrouded hills as Donald McKinnon made his way down the path to his little stone cottage in Argyll Scotland. Donald was a large man, handsome in a rugged sort of way. His arms were thick and strong as oak trees, his massive torso like a slab of beef. His jaw was as square and cut as a block of granite and covered in thick red hair. He was a mountain of a man, the envy of every man and desire of every woman in the county, a regular champion of the yearly highland games. His family had been pig farmers in Argyle for over a hundred years, and he was content in his simple life with his beautiful wife Finella. The two had met at a new year's celebration nine years previously, Donald had just won a friendly wrestling match between several of the local farmers, and Finella made sure to catch her hulking victor's eye when it came to her turn that night to regale the tavern with song. Her voice was smooth and clear as a mountain lake. As Donald looked into her sparkling blue eyes, her hair like a golden waterfall cascading down her shoulders, voice washing over him, he was immediately enchanted. One fumbling request and clumsy dance later, the two of them were inseparably in love. Within a month they were married and their first child Angus was born soon after. The two worked day and night side by side and looked forward to growing their family together in peace. But the devil laughs at the plans of man. Donald was just returning from selling the spring pigs in Campbeltown about two days walk away and he was ready to see his expecting wife. The two of them were ecstatic when they discovered she was with child. The birth of their son Angus had been a difficult one and the town Dr. wasn’t sure that Finella would be able to conceive again after it. Donald felt pride in his heart every time he thought about bringing another child into the world with his beloved. He had always wanted a big family and hoped that if all went well with this child that they could try for more, filling their little home with the sounds of laughter. He walked down the winding dirt road towards their home humming an old tune his father taught him while they used to work together. He crested a small hill within eyesight of their home, and just as he saw the candle burning in the window his wife always kept lit for him when he went off on a trip, a piercing howl cut through the air like a knife. But instead of an echo, it was followed by a small chorus of blood-curdling screams and the wailing of farm animals. Terror gripped Donald, causing him to drop his lantern and run to the house as fast as he could. He arrived minutes later at a sight that would burn itself into his mind and alter the course of countless lives for years to come. The door was torn off its iron hinges and thrown across the yard. Every bit of furniture was tossed and shattered against the stone of the walls, the cauldron was turned over and stew spilled across the floor, mingling with the crimson blood sprayed across every surface of the house. Donald ran to the overturned bed and flipped it to find the mangled corpse of his son. Looking into his now cold dead eyes brought a flashback to just two days ago when he felt his son’s arms around him, excitedly telling him of his plans to finish the wooden wagon the two of them had been building. The thought of that being the last time he ever heard his voice or felt the embrace of his little arms, squeezed fat salty tears out of his eyes, dripping down and staining his son's lifeless face. What was worse than all of that, was the condition the rest of his body had been left in. It took everything in Donald's power not to vomit at the sight of his only child laying there, left arm torn away, torso ripped open from neck to navel, heart, and liver missing. There was nothing man nor god could do to save him. He frantically rushed to his beloved wife and found her slumped over the dinner table, neck broken and claw marks that were far larger than any beast known to man streaking her face and chest. She appeared, however, untouched by the appetites of whatever creature had brought such horror upon his family. The two most important people in the entire world to him were gone, torn to shreds by some soulless fiend. All Donald could feel was a vacuum of emptiness in his stomach, the gory scene hammering into his soul the notion that he had failed his loved ones and was doomed to a life of solitude because of his inaction, shattering his heart into a million jagged pieces. He gazed upon his wife's still fresh corpse, tears streaming down his face, and saw that her swollen stomach, filled with the promise of new life, was untouched. Overcome with grief and frantic with desperation, an idea struck him like a lightning bolt to the skull as he grabbed a knife from the table and thrust it into the fireplace. Pulling out the steaming metal he peeled off his wife's dress and prepared to chase a madman's hope of saving his child's life.

“Fergiv me Finella” He said through the tears “ah failed ye and Angus, but ah swear on yer blood, ah will not fail this child”

With that he pressed the hot knife into her flesh and split her open, reaching inside her sickeningly warm insides and removing the sack that held their infant. He tore it open with his teeth, the taste of amniotic fluid filling his mouth, and checked to see if the baby was breathing. For a short moment, his heart stopped as he felt no rising of the little chest, but with a sudden cough, it began wailing a powerful cry indeed. Donald was so overcome with relief that he nearly forgot where he was. Looking at the mess around him, he was harshly brought back to earth and realized there was much to be done if he were to keep his oath. He tore up some old shirts (the bedsheets being covered in the infant's brother's blood) and used them to clean and swaddle the babe before laying her in a bundle of rags while he dragged the bodies outside and began cleaning things up somewhat. He washed out the stew pot and went out to fill it with goat's milk from their old nanny tied up behind the house.

“Why couldn’t it have been you ye damned ignorant beast?”

He whispered mournfully to himself as he calmed her down from her shrieking and fighting that had been brought on presumably by whatever had slain his loved ones. He gathered the milk and set it to boiling on the still crackling fire that miraculously hadn’t managed to spread and destroy the home. Once the milk was hot he dipped a rag in it and allowed his new daughter to suckle, repeating the process until she burped in contentment, snuggling into her nest and drifting off to sleep.

“Ah swear” He said as he looked down on the last remnant of his old life. “That ah will never allow anythin to hurt ye so long as ah live. I don’t know what damned hell beast took yer mother and brother from us, but we’ll not rest until it, and every other creature of the sort are burned and buried where they cannot do this ever again. But if yur gon ta follow me, we have ta give ye a name. Ah spose you’ll be needin a name before all that eh?” When no answer was given from the sleeping infant, Donald gazed down at her sleeping face, the picture of innocence, and knew she would need a strong name to help protect her. “Gavina” He whispered the strong Gaelic name “My little Hawk”

With that, he went out to the tool shed, grabbed his spade, and commenced digging a pair of graves beneath the alder tree in the backyard. Each shovel full of earth seemed to increase in weight as the finality of what he was doing began to sink in. After wrapping the bodies in spare linens and placing them as gently as he could into their final resting places, he filled in the hole and said a prayer over them. He begged their forgiveness and promised vengeance. “Ah was slow, and useless tonight. Never again will I let ma-self be unprepared for the evils hidin from the light of day. Ah’ll do wha-aer it takes to prepare mah-self, and your little Gavina for this devils war. On mah blood, and mah soul, I swear it.”

The darkness and gravity of his words were undercut only by the once again free-flowing stream of tears that stained the freshly turned soil of the graves. Donald finally pulled himself together and dried his eyes before going back inside his desecrated home and collapsing next to his babe, shovel clutched in hand as a feeble weapon of self-defense should the nightmare return.

The next morning Donald stumbled outside to survey the damage done by the visitor. Aside from the door being ripped off and tossed like a paper sack, the small stone wall surrounding the perimeter of the house was crumbling near the gate as if something huge had put its weight on it and jumped over. The path leading to the house showed deep claw marks in the soil and a pair of paw prints behind each set. The unusual thing was that while there was a resemblance to the marks of a dog or a wolf, though the last Scottish wolf was supposedly killed centuries ago, the prints were somewhat elongated, like that of a human. Following the trail up to the house, the only other clue as to the nature of the monster was a tuft of gray and white fur he found. It was downy underneath but bristly on top, and smelled of wet dog. The most peculiar thing though was the strange hint of what Donald told himself couldn’t possibly be cologne. He wanted to follow the tracks to wherever they lead but he couldn’t leave Gavina here alone, and he had no other family to speak of. Standing and contemplating, he cursed himself and went back inside to take care of the baby. For several days this cycle continued. Donald would go out and follow the gouges in the earth as far as he dared before cursing and turning back, unwilling to be out of eyesight of the house while Gavina was still there. Soon though he knew he had to make a choice, living in this limbo of fear and indecision was going to drive him mad. So he went inside and began to pack everything they would need, food, what little money he had, clothes and tools, and the deed to the property that he had inherited from his own father, up in a large bundle and packed it on the old donkey out in the barn. After feeding the pigs one last time, Donald tied Gavina to the ass and began the long walk back to Campbelltown. He made camp within eyesight of the road that night but didn’t trust himself to sleep an ounce, lest the beast return to finish what it had begun. Once they reached the town, Donald led the old pack animal and its precious cargo to the market square. People looked and stared in horror as they saw Donald, grim-faced and clothes covered in blood and dirt. He walked straight to the general store and tied up the donkey outside before carrying in Gavina to greet the owner.

“Aye, Donald, we just saw ye hear a few days ago, back already? How're that pretty little wife uh yers eh?” Questioned the owner, Alastair Campbell. His clan had long been the most powerful in the county. He owned several properties and his family was among the wealthier ones around, but he had always been a humble and kind man, if not a bit shrewd.

“That’s what ah’ve come teh discuss Alastair. Fenella….was killed the night ah got home.” Saying the words in conversation for the first time caused a sharp pang of new emotion that Donald fought fiercely to wrestle into submission, lest he falls to pieces once again.

“Some hell beast broke into ma house and slaughtered her. Angus as well. Ah found them torn ta pieces, I had ta cut ma own wife open just ta save our unborn child, and thank god ah managed that or ah don’t thenk ma mind would have withstood it.” Replied Donald in a melancholic voice, the weight of everything that had happened crushing down on him with each word.

“An animal ye say? What sort are ye talking about? There haven’t been any beasts large enough to do something like that in Scotland in ages.”

“Ah dunno what it was, but it was damned big and it wreaked havoc on mah property, killed mah family, and ah will not stay there another day. Ah’ve come ta sell the damned place if you’ll have it. Ahm takin ma daughter and leavin here as soon as possible. You and the rest of the county can hunt the killer down, but ah will have no part of it. Will ye take it or not?”

Alastair looked concerned about everything he was hearing. A killer was on the loose and its first victim was booking it out of town, which would raise the suspicions of any reasonable man. But there was one thing he knew about Donald and it was that he adored that family, and would cut his own head off before he laid a hand on them. It also didn’t hurt that the farm would be a nice addition to his holdings and a good dowry for his daughter.

“Aye, ahll take the place off yer hands. But first thing I’m doin is sending to whole damned town on a hunt for whatever the hell done this to yer family, but if ah find out you had anythin to do with this, ah’ll have ye hunted down and strung up like a dog.” The very suggestion sent a look of hate through Donald's eyes that immediately caused Campbell to back down.

“Ah can give ya 20 pounds fer the place right now. More if ye can wait around another day.” He nervously tried to move past the accusation.

It took every ounce of strength Donald had not to go off on Alastair for even insinuating he had something to do with the death of his family, but he knew that his story seemed unbelievable so he gave him the benefit of the doubt. One thing he was not going to do was spend another day here.

“Aye ah’ll take the 20 and whatever supplies ye can spare, ah’ll not be spending any more time around here.”

Alastair nodded before heading to the back of the store to the iron he had hidden under a pile of old tartan. He pulled out the large five-pound notes and came back up to the store and counted them out.

“Take whatever ya need. Ah’ll be sorry ta see ya leave Donald, but ah hope ye find whatever it is yer lookin for. Keep that little one safe then, she’s a miracle child that one.”

With a polite nod, Donald folded up the money and bagged up several parcels of dry meat, a few bags of flour, clothes, some real wraps for the baby, and various other long-lasting foods and goods they would need on the road. That was when he spied the gun on the wall behind the counter. It was an American model, 12 gauge from the look of it, double barrel.

“How much fer the gun?”

“Fer you? Take the damned thing, don’t remember the last time I used it anyway. Take a box uh shells while yer at it. Maybe it’ll help keep the devil from gettin at ya again.”

Donald thanked him, took his goods, and headed back out to the donkey. The next stop he made was to the town stables. Thereafter a short bit of haggling, he traded the pack animal and five guineas for a worn-out old draft horse, and on the way, he went. He didn’t know what lay ahead of them, but he knew that he would never let his child be a victim like her mother and sibling. He would do whatever it took to forge himself, and her, into weapons strong and sly enough to avenge their loved ones' souls, and maybe, earn a measure of peace.