“Latin. It says, ‘Here lies the accurate promulgator of the Gospels and light...no, luminary of the Hibernian tongue, Robert Kirk, pastor of Aberfoyle, who died May 14, 1692, aged 48’,” Chris translated. I guess it hadn’t been a waste of his time to take eight years of Latin. “Do you know why they called him a ‘luminary’?”
“He was some sort of language expert, and translated things like the Bible and the Book of Psalms from Latin into Gaelic,” I replied. “I think he was the first to do so.” Chris grunted; while he would never lower himself to read a book about fairies, he maintained healthy respect for his fellow scholars. After a suitable moment of silence, I suggested we climb the fairy hill.
“We’re here, so we might as well,” I said when Chris whined. “Besides, the walk will burn off some of that booze.”
Chris grumbled as he followed me toward the hill. After a far longer and more difficult climb than I’d anticipated we stood at the top of Doon Hill, gazing at the Minister’s Pine.
The tree was, in a word, magnificent. It was old and stately, like a Scottish version of Yggsdrasil, and wishes, scrawled on white or colored bits of cloth, were tied to the branches and tacked to the wide trunk. More offerings were nestled around the gnarly old roots, and shiny coins and colorful bottle caps were jammed into the bark.
“Some walk,” I grumbled, digging in my pack for my water bottle. The water was warm, but it was better than nothing.
“So, they say the preacher’s still in here, huh?” Chris leaned close to the trunk, and picked at a coin. “Why hasn’t anyone tried to chop it down, set the poor guy loose?”
I shrugged. “To keep from angering the fairies?”
Chris barked a laugh. “Yeah. Or, they don’t want to kill this golden goose of a tourist trap.” I glanced around at the packed dirt path and discarded crisp packets; Disneyland, this was not. “This stuff is all so lame, Rina. Honestly, I don’t know what you see in all these bedtime stories.”
I fingered one of the cloth prayers, scrawled in a child’s hand on a red strip of cloth; it read ‘save my Mum’. “They remind us of where we came from, where we’re going. They’re comforting.”
Another barking laugh. I suspected that Chris had had more complimentary whisky than he’d let on. “Comforting? That’s your explanation for all of this nonsense—that it’s comforting?”
“Of course,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. Chris would sober up soon enough, and my normal brother would be returned to me. I hoped. “Why would people keep doing these things,” I gestured at the tree, all of the flapping bits of cloth prayers and the offerings scattered about, “if no one ever got anything out of it?”
Chris looked from me to the tree, and back at me. “If all this goddamn magic shit is real, then why is my life over?” he ground out. “You think I didn’t pray for an answer? For Olivia to come back to me? I did. Every single day, I did. You know what I got?” His voice cracked, and he looked toward the horizon. “Nothing. Because there’s nothing to get.”
He stalked down the hill, muttering away about the uselessness of magic and prayers. I watched him until he disappeared around a curve, then I turned back to the tree.
“Don’t worry,” I said, patting the rough bark. “I believe in you, Reverend Kirk. I know what really happened. And I’d rescue you if I could.”
Chapter Two
Chris
I WALKED DOWN THE HILL toward the rental car, mad at myself for lashing out at Rina, mad that she’d brought me to this God awful tourist trap, mad about so many things.
I was sick of being an angry jerk. My situation was the fault of exactly one person, and one person only: Olivia.
Olivia, whom I’d loved more than I thought I could love someone.
Olivia, who’d filed a lawsuit against me and was slowly, methodically ruining my life.
I tripped over a rock, and caught myself against a tree. Once I was steady I grabbed the rock and flung it as far as I could, and watched it drop soundlessly into the brush. Just like my life, the rock went out with a whimper rather than a roar. Shit. I’d do anything for a good roar.
I leaned against the tree, and gave myself a little pity party. In the past month I’d failed as an author, teacher, and man, and I just couldn’t wait to find out what else life had in store for me. All the whisky in Scotland couldn’t make me forget how I’d screwed up, nor could it help me fix things.
I heard Rina on the path behind me, and felt like an even bigger jerk. Rina had just had her own bout of life kicking her in the arse, and was she wallowing like a pathetic sot? No, she was out, working hard on her degree and moving forward. Rina was the one person who’d never doubted me, and the only one who had always had my back. If it wasn’t for her, I don’t know if I would have survived Olivia leaving me, and the rest of the fallout.
I straightened up and ground the heel of my hand against my eyes, not that I’d been crying. I’d moved past tears some weeks ago. I wanted to be strong for Rina, not some loser whose life was crumbling to bits. She’s always been there for me, and I would be there for her.
I needed to be there for her, if for no other reason than to not fail again.
“Hey,” Rina said, when she saw me after she rounded the bend in the trail. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Just catching my breath.” Rina eyed me, but said nothing. I hated that she’d been reduced to taking care of me, when I should be the one guiding her. “Would you like to get some lunch? My treat, even though you dragged me to another lame pile of rocks,” I added.
Rina’s face broke into a smile; she’d never been offended by my teasing, not when we were kids, and not now that we were adults. “I do like lunch. And I saw a really cute pub when we passed through Aberfoyle.”
I nodded, then we resumed walking toward the car park. “Cute pub it is.”
Chapter Three
Karina
WE DROVE AWAY FROM the latest lame pile of rocks, as Chris had so eloquently put it, and went straight to the center of the village. Since the pub I’d wanted to go to had a window display of fairies dancing in a ring, I passed it and parked near the next, smaller pub. After how upset Chris had gotten at the kirk, and the last thing I wanted was to get into another argument. Besides, the poor guy had been through enough.
The pub was a seat yourself affair, so we picked a table near the bar. We’d just gotten settled when our waitress arrived.
“Welcome, welcome,” she said as she set down menus. “Drinks to start?”
“Beer, a big one,” Chris said.
“I’ll have tea,” I said. “What kind of soup do you have?”
“Today’s is a cullen skink.”
“Um.” I glanced at the menu. “That’s fish, right?”
The server smiled. “Aye, ‘tis fish. A bowl with some bread and butter then?” I nodded, and she glanced at Chris. “And for you?”
“May I get a sandwich, roast beef or something like that? And a whisky with the beer,” he added.
“O’ course ye may.” She gathered up our menus, and we stared out the window at the car park. When our drinks were delivered we silently tended them, me stirring my tea and Chris downing his whisky. As I watched my brother wallow in alcohol and despair, my heart cracked a little further. It killed me to see him like this; it killed me even more that there wasn’t anything I could do for him, short of turning back time, and I’d watched way too many science fiction movies to think that that would end well. I’d probably step on a butterfly and ruin the world.
“What are you going to do when we get back home?” I ventured.
“What can I do?” he countered, staring into his beer. “I’ve lost my job, I’ve lost my reputation... Hell, I’m about to lose my home.” He uttered one of those short, barking laughs. “Maybe I’ll burn all the copies of my books and set up shop in the shipping boxes. Maybe the garbage men will pick me up, throw me in a trash compactor, and put me out of my misery.”
“You don
’t know what’s going to happen,” I reminded him. “The case is still ongoing. If you get the plagiarism charges dropped all of this could go away.”
Chris narrowed his eyes over the top of his pint. “This will never go away,” he said. “She’s been on talk shows, telling them about how we researched the manuscript together, telling them about us.” He slammed his glass onto the table, beer sloshing up and over the edge, and held his head in his hands. “Us. Out of all of this, I wish there was still an us. I miss Olivia so goddamned much.”
And now we were on to the waterworks portion of our day. Since Chris had been hit with the plagiarism suit by his ex-fiancée’s lawyer, his days have gone thusly:
Wake up, ready to take on the world and prove my innocence!
My professional credentials will see me through!
I can’t believe Olivia would do such a thing. What did I ever see in her?
My colleagues hate me. My friends won’t speak to me. I am ruined, both professionally and personally.
Why can’t Olivia just love me again?
Ah, Olivia. While I’d never disliked her, I had always suspected that there was a bit more to her than she let on. She had met Chris while he was in the midst of writing his third novel, Bones of the Bard, the New York Times bestseller that had made him a household name. It was a masterpiece of historical fiction, weaving together the known facts of Shakespeare’s life along with several other Elizabethan writers, and some rather scandalous court intrigue. Olivia had stood by Chris while he struggled with the first draft of the novel, through rejection slip after rejection slip, while those first few reviews trickled in, and during the book’s steep, quick climb up the bestseller list, where it had remained for nearly a year.
The day Chris had received a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar advance for his next book, Olivia’s agent cum lawyer filed a lawsuit stating that Chris had plagiarized one of her manuscripts. We hadn’t even known that she’d written a book. The fact that Olivia had met Chris while she had been a student in Chris’s sophomore literature course was not helping matters.
The fact that Chris was actively trying to drown himself in all forms of booze also wasn’t helping matters.
“Are ye all right, lad?” the server asked as she placed Chris’s plate in front of him. It was filled with his sandwich, and a side order of neeps and tatties, which was what us Americans called mashed turnips and potatoes. I hoped all that protein and starch would sober him up a bit.
“He’s fine,” I answered. “Just been out in the sun a bit too long.” I gave her my brightest smile, the one that had always worked wonders on grumpy professors and misbehaving customers alike. In addition to being a grad student, I’d held my own fair share of waitressing jobs.
My smile still had it, and the server looked sympathetically at Chris, and patted his arm before she set my soup before me. Before I started on my soup I pulled out my field notebook.
“You took notes at the hill?” Chris asked.
“I take notes everywhere,” I replied, adjusting my glasses on the bridge of my nose. Sometimes Chris was proud of me working toward my doctorate in geology. Other times, I think he wished I’d chosen a major that didn’t involve me being filthy all the time. Shakespearean professors do prefer having presentable siblings.
“Tell me again how you got your benefactors to buy into your hare-brained thesis?”
I ignored the jibe, but answered the question. “Probably because it’s never been researched before.” My “hare-brained thesis” was about the rock types and layers found in and around ley lines that passed through historically significant spiritual sites. Ley lines had been studied plenty—Carson even offered a dowsing certificate—but no one had ever studied the bedrock beneath the lines.
It is a known fact that certain types of stone, such as limestone and quartz, vibrate on specific frequencies which can be measured with an oscillator, which is why they’re used in things like wristwatches. My theory was that areas said to contain spiritual phenomena were constructed of and on a similar type of stone, thus resulting in locations across the globe having accumulated similar magical attributions over the years. Basically, I thought ghosts were an expression of a location’s natural vibrational capacity.
Chris snorted. “Why don’t you interview some of those archeoastronomy and ley line experts on that television show?” he pressed. “You know, the ones that talk about ancient aliens?”
I glared at him; I knew exactly what show Chris was referring to, and it was atrocious. If you’re going to claim to be a scholar, the least you can do is comb your hair. “My work has nothing to do with aliens, ancient or otherwise,” I snapped. “There is a scientific foundation for what I’m doing. Telluric currents, for instance.” He raised that eyebrow again, so I explained, “Telluric currents are natural energy currents running throughout the earth. Look it up.”
“I don’t need to look up,” he grumbled. Satisfied that I’d won that little bout, I turned my attention back to my notes. No matter what Chris said, this “hare-brained theory” of mine had gotten me this research grant across the pond that we were both enjoying. Therefore, someone other than I thought it held water. That was good.
I penciled in a few notes while I nibbled at my bread, then I glanced at my phone. It was still early afternoon, and I was hoping we could stop by the Trossachs Discovery Center after lunch. If I’d read the map correctly, there was a walking trail that was adjacent to the Highland Boundary Fault. Walking trails with nearby fault lines were just the kinds of things that make geologists happy.
Satisfied with that day’s notes, I reached into my pack for my favorite pen. When I couldn’t find it, I upended the entire daypack onto the table, and noticed I was missing a few other items as well: a brush, a battered hair clip that had traveled to many dusty sites with me, and a lump of rose quartz.
My heart thudded as I searched for these items. Most—well, all—of them were easily replaceable, but the rose quartz had been a gift from Jared. I’d carried it around since I was a freshman at Carson University, and even though I’d resolved to cut all ties with Jared, I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of the stone. Despite what had happened with Jared and me, the quartz had become my talisman.
I searched my memory, trying to recall the last time I’d held it, when I remembered reaching into my pack at the top of Doon Hill.
“I have to go back to the kirk,” I said suddenly, sweeping everything back into my pack. “I think I dropped my lucky quartz.”
“Jared’s rock?” Chris smirked, and I glared at him. We had an understanding, my brother and I: as long as he didn’t mention Jared, I wouldn’t mention Olivia. If we didn’t keep to the agreement we were both liable to weep our way across the countryside.
“Yes,” I replied. “Will you be all right on your own for half an hour or so?”
Chris drained his pint, and waved to the server for a refill. “I’ll manage.”
I SPED BACK TO THE ruined kirk, my knuckles white as I gripped the wheel. The real reason I didn’t get on Chris about his constant mooning over Olivia was that at least he and Olivia had had something. I’d had nothing with Jared. No it hadn’t quite been nothing, but it may as well have been. One thing that Chris and I had both learned on this trip is that an ocean is not nearly enough distance to outrun your past.
I parked in the kirk’s tourist lot, leapt out of the rental and ran across the bridge and up the fairy hill, startling some of the local wildlife along the way. When I reached the Minister’s Pine I was panting, my heart pounding as sweat poured down my back.
I had to find that quartz. I just had to.
I dropped to my knees and felt around near the base of the tree. I found my brush rather quickly, along with my hairclip and the stupidly expensive Mont Blanc pen that my advisor had given me when I earned my masters degree. But the quartz, the quartz wasn’t anywhere. The bits of lunch I’d had turned to lead in my stomach; if the quartz was gone, then it was reall
y, truly over.
“Lookin’ for this, are ye now?”
I turned toward the voice, blinked, and pushed my glasses up to my forehead. Yeah, he was really there. Standing in front of me was a tall man in what I assumed was period dress. Instead of a kilt—we American girls tend to think that all Scotsmen run around in kilts, no matter the occasion; sadly, this is not the case—he was wearing a padded brown leather coat topped with chain mail, along with matching brown pants and well-worn leather boots. A helmet was tucked under his arm, and I could see the hilt of a claymore, one of those medieval broadswords that were so heavy you had to swing it with two hands, poking up over his shoulder. A shield rested next to the sword’s hilt, its curved edge just visible above the man’s shoulder.
I hadn’t realized they did reenactments at Doon Hill, and I made a mental note to check the brochure for show times. I also noticed that the actor had his hand extended, with my lump of rose quartz sitting on his open palm.
“Yes!” I got to my feet, and grabbed the stone. “Thank you,” I said once I remembered my manners, stroking the stone with my thumb. The man looked at me intently, his expression wavering somewhere between confusion and curiosity. “What made you think it was mine?”
“Saw ye drop it, I did,” he replied.
“And you’ve been waiting here since then?”
“I knew ye would be back for me.”
I blinked, since I must have misunderstood his accent. What I’d heard as ‘me’ must have really been ‘it’. Accents do tend to garble words. “I really appreciate you waiting for me. Thank you,” I said, extending my hand.
He eyed my hand, dark brows low over his blue eyes. Then he grasped my fingers and brought them toward his mouth.
“What are you doing?” I snapped, snatching my hand away.
“I thought ye wanted me to kiss your hand,” he explained.
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