Dylan’s patience wore thin, and his bladder demanded attention, so he turned his back on Sinann and lifted his kilt to pee through the hole into the garden below. “Right,” he said.
There was a silence, and Dylan hoped Sinann had gone, but when he shook himself off, let his kilt down, and turned around, she was still there. A sullen, narrow look was in her eyes.
“You’re destined.”
“Then why was I born in 1970, if I’m so destined to save eighteenth-century Scotland? Huh? Who died and made you God?” He shoved past her and out the door. She followed him, past the battlement, and down the stone steps of the tower.
When she caught up with him she cried, “I was a god long before your Yahweh was anyone!”
“Don’t even go there. Just, don’t.” He clattered down the flights as quickly as he could without tripping in the semidarkness.
“I was—”
“Don’t!” He stopped and turned on her. “I don’t want to hear about the Sidhe, the goddess, or any of that New Age stuff, okay?” She crossed her arms and glared down at him from a few steps above.
“I mean, yesterday I didn’t believe in faeries, and now I’m held hostage by one. Yesterday I believed in an orderly universe, and now I think I’m in hell. Yesterday I had a life,” he flashed on Ginny and his stomach tightened, “and now I’m a broke stranger among people who would as soon see me dead as see me at all. People you want me to save? Take a reality break. You’re not God nor goddess to me, you’re nothing more than a little, fluttery wad of misplaced power. Get off my back, get out of my life, but first, for crying out loud, send me home!”
Sinann’s eyes left his and focused over his shoulder. Uh oh. He turned to find the widow of Alasdair Matheson standing on the stairs below. Sarah held a bundle in her arms and gawked at him with wide eyes.
Dylan tried to smile at her, but knew he was not convincing anyone. He muttered to Sinann, “She can’t see you, can she?”
The faerie giggled, entirely too amused. “Nae, she cannae.”
He sighed, turned back to the woman and said, “Hello, uh . . . ma’am?”
She nodded to him. “A Dhilein . . . I have these for you.” Her eyes were red-rimmed windows onto an abyss of grief, but she tried to smile with her mouth as she held out the bundle of leather and fur. “My poor Alasdair will no longer be needing them, and it’s been pointed out to me that you’re a kinsman and without. You should have them.”
Dylan was at a loss. His voice went low for he could barely speak. “I can’t take your husband’s stuff . . . uh, property. It wouldn’t be right.”
“By the time my boys are old enough to wear them, these things will be old and stiff and of no use to anyone. It wouldn’t be right for them to lie around, useless, when there’s someone as can use them. Here, take them.” She stepped upward and shoved the bundle into his arms, then turned, picked up her skirts, and hurried back down the steps.
The wad loosened in his arms, and a leather thong dangled to the stones. He sat on a step to examine the gifts. There were a couple of smallish pieces of sheepskin, leather straps, and a large bag made of some sort of black fur.
“That’s seal skin. A sporran of seal skin is a treasure,” said Sinann, in awe. “She wasn’t asked to give that up, for she could have sold it. Should have sold it, if you ask me. I’d say she’s taken a liking to ye.”
Dylan snorted. “She’s been a widow one day.”
“And a practical woman all her life. Oh, she mourns her husband well enough. And if you approach her too soon she’ll put you off for a respectable amount of time. But, mark me, she’s looking to the future.”
The faerie’s words made Dylan’s heart clench. “The future. Right.” He held up one of the sheepskins, which was curved almost into a tube, wool to the inside.
“Leggings,” said Sinann. “Use the thongs to strap them on.”
Dylan complied, and swallowed a creepy feeling as he strapped on the skins that were shaped to a dead man’s legs. But he found relief from the cold with the leather and wool snug from ankles to knees. Almost as good as jeans. The black sporran he hung on his belt by its thong, then stood.
“You dinnae need that brooch, you know. Sure, I dinnae ken how you breathe with your plaid so tight.
“What do you mean?”
“Ye’ve wrapped it around ye like a winding sheet. Here . . .” She leapt into the air and released the brooch from the wool with a flick of her wrist.
“Hey!” Dylan reached and swiped at her, but she dodged like a fly and ducked in to tug his plaid loose so it hung down in front, draped over his shoulder. “Hey! Stop! Look at this!” The end of the plaid now brushed his toes.
“Now let it hang some in the back . . .” Sinann swung around him and tugged the plaid. Dylan gave up and let her rearrange him. His eyes narrowed in irritation. “Now, see, you then tuck the end of it in your belt.” She came around to tuck, but he waved her off and did it himself. She fluttered back, hands on her hips. “And there you have it.”
“It’ll fall.”
“It won’t fall, if you hold yourself like a man. And if it does, you put it right again.” She twirled the brooch in her fingers. “There’s one less thing for you to keep track of.” She made like she would throw it out an arrow loop, but Dylan snatched it from her hand and slipped it into his sporran.
“Thanks for the fashion tip.” He proceeded down the steps, wishing Sinann would send him away, but also wondering if breakfast would be cold by now.
By following the echoing sound of voices, he found the Great Hall where he’d come conscious the night before, and entered through the door opposite the huge hearth. The black Border collie rose from his spot by the large main entrance at the middle of the room and trotted over. Dylan bent to scratch him behind the ears, then went on into the room. Sinann followed like a bee hovering, and the collie trotted along behind.
Long trestle tables had been set up, with many short benches and stools beside them for people to sit on. Some small children chased each other the length of the room while a few women were unsuccessful in quieting them. One man was slumped over one of the tables, snoring, and several people were sitting and eating from wooden bowls. Two other men lay curled up and snoring, one in a corner and the other beneath a bench, both wrapped in their plaids. Finally one of the women succeeded in herding the noisiest children from the room, clucking at them in hushed Gaelic.
The body of Alasdair Matheson still lay on the table against the long wall, but it was now wrapped in a white cloth. After the night-long wake, most of those present ignored the body. But there was a dull silence while they ate.
A screech sounded from across the room, and Dylan spun to see a young man wailing and jumping about like an ape, pointing at him. “Ha shee! ” he screamed in great excitement, “Ha shee! Ha shee! ” He wore no kilt, but only a dirty shirt and a pair of worn shoes. His face was almost completely obscured by ragged hair, but his adolescent beard and voice betrayed his youth. One of the women rose from the table to deal with the uproar.
Dylan muttered to Sinann, “What’s with him?”
The faerie lit on the floor, and Dylan realized she was ducking behind him, out of sight of the raving boy. “Ignore him. He’s an idiot.”
“He can see you.”
“And curse him for it.” She watched, in full fume, as the noisy one was urged to a table to sit. He finally quieted, but kept staring at Sinann.
Dylan noted that the woman soothing the boy was the pretty one who had given him the painkilling potion the night before—Iain’s trophy wife. He looked away to avoid being caught staring again. But he couldn’t help a rush of pleasure that she was there, nor could he help the rising desire to gawk. He peered at Sinann instead. “How come he can see you?”
“I told you. He’s an idiot. Not right in the head.”
“Ah. Mentally challenged.”
She snorted. “Ye have a way with euphemisms, lad, that would do an Englishman proud.�
�� Her gaze returned to the noisy one. “The others I can fool, but over the likes of him I have nae power at all.”
The young man still muttered, “Ha shee. . . .”
“What’s he saying?”
Sinann sighed. “Tha i a’ Sidhe. He’s telling everyone I’m here.” To the young man she hissed, “Hush Ranald!” But her words only brought more excitement and squealing from the young man.
“They don’t seem to believe him.”
“They do.”
“They really believe in faeries?”
“Don’t you?” With her chin she pointed to the room at large. “They know I’m here, but even when I let them see me they ignore me in public lest they be accused of witchcraft. You should be discreet as well. Go, sit. Eat. You’re not going home today, lad, and you’ll need your strength.”
He frowned at her, but obeyed and went on down the long hall to sit on one of the stools. The dog followed. Sarah came from the hearth at the far end, bearing a wooden bowl and spoon, which she gave to him. Dylan thanked her and she slipped away. The bowl was filled with a sort of gray, steaming mush. He tasted it and realized it was oatmeal. Duh. But the meal was of a finer texture than he’d ever seen before, sort of gummy, and it had a toasted flavor. There was no sugar or butter in it, just some milk. A little bland, but not bad. And he realized quickly, very filling.
Sinann settled on the next bench and said, “She’s lovely, isn’t she?”
Dylan refrained from glancing after Sarah and stared into his bowl. “Mind your own business, Tinkerbell. I’m not on the market, whether you send me home or not. So you might as well send me home. Now would be good.”
“And what makes you so sure I can send you home?”
He turned to glare at her, then remembered himself and turned back to his oatmeal. “What? Do you mean you can’t send me home?”
“I didn’t say that, either. I only suggest you not be so confident in my powers. I might be able to send you back, or I might not. And that’s even aside from the question of whether or not I want to.”
Dylan stared hard into his bowl and struggled to hide his rising panic. She had to send him back. She had to let him go home. His life would be over if he were stuck here.
A not unwelcome voice came from the tower entrance, and Dylan turned to see Malcolm, who silenced Ranald with a finger to his lips before settling opposite Dylan. He peeked under the table and smiled. “I see Sigurd has attached himself to ye.”
Dylan looked down at the dog, who had stationed himself at his feet. “Sigurd? Strange name for a Scottish dog.”
Malcolm laughed. “Sigurd the Mighty wouldnae be pleased to hear you say that, Earl of Orkney as he once was. Besides, had Alasdair given him a true Scottish name, he couldnae call the animal without having a dozen relatives answer.” His smile widened at Dylan. “Sleep well, did ye, lad?”
Dylan nodded.
“How’s that parritch going down?” A bowl was set in front of Malcolm and he tried it out for himself.
“Well enough. Thank you.”
Malcolm peered at him for a moment, then said, “From what you told us last night, it would seem you’ve reached the end of your long journey. You say you jumped ship and headed here. Why here instead of back to Virginia?”
Dylan cast about for an answer, but realized there was no good one. He made swirls in the goo at the bottom of his bowl. “I told you I jumped ship. I had to get away from the port. I came where there were relatives.”
There was a long silence. Finally Malcolm said, “Tell me, did you expect to find four male cousins when you arrived?”
Dylan’s eyebrow raised. Why would the gender of his nominal cousins matter? “No. I didn’t expect to come here at all. Right now all I really want is to go home. I would leave today if I could.” He threw a glance at Sinann.
Malcolm considered that for a moment, then relaxed and proceeded. “Passage to the colonies is dear. Unless you’re game to annoy Her Majesty just enough to get yourself transported, but not enough to get yourself hung, and to take the floggings in the meantime, you’ll need money.”
Dylan’s interest perked at this. He would need money regardless of where he might go, and as long as Sinann refused to send him home, he was stuck in the eighteenth century where broke was more than just a figurative term. “You’ve got work?”
Malcolm laughed. “There’s always work, but especially now. It’s a late harvest we’re bringing in, and if we dawdle we’ll lose what we cannae save before the cold comes. The board and bed will keep you alive, and if you’re intent on leaving for the colonies and take care with your expenses, the cash will be sufficient in time. We’ve a small force of retainers attached to the Tigh and in this circumstance of need they’re helping with the harvest. But even so, with Alasdair’s death it’s a race with the weather. What say you?”
Dylan glanced at Sinann, still hoping that she would wave her hand and zap him back to turn of the twenty-first-century Tennessee, but she looked away and ignored him. Then he returned his attention to Malcolm, and, without seeming too eager, he nodded slowly. “All right.”
Malcolm also nodded slowly, then said, “Today being the funeral and all, and Sunday besides, there’ll be nae work. But tomorrow you start in the fields.” He reached under the table to his sporran and laid upon the boards something hidden in his long, bony hand, then slid it across to Dylan. “And here. Take it as a loan, but I couldnae stand to see you get your throat slit for being too close a relative and you the prodigal and all.” He removed his hand to reveal a small knife in a steel scabbard. “This sgian dubh has saved my life more than once.”
“Here?” Dylan was thoroughly confused now, but he took the knife and slipped it into the top of his right legging.
Again Malcolm laughed. “Nae, not here. I was born here. But you were not. There are some who would accept you as kin, but others who will never. And still others who would call you kin and see you dead just the same, or even because of it. Take care.”
Dylan wanted to renew his pleading with Sinann but kept quiet in front of Malcolm. He fingered the knife tucked into his legging, and hoped he would never have to use it.
The funeral that day was, for Dylan, a study in ambivalence. He’d never known Alasdair, and felt no personal loss over his death, but he was also compassionate enough to understand the grief of those around him. Women wailed and carried on as if each were his widow, leaving Sarah to cry quietly into a handkerchief. The body was carried from the castle on boards that had been the top of the trestle table on which Alasdair had spent his last night above ground. The funeral party crossed a small drawbridge to the loch shore, and on down to a tiny cluster of buildings in the glen. Bagpipes wailed to the surrounding mountainsides, and Dylan’s blood surged with the rise and fall of the music.
He took this opportunity to check out the lay of the land outside. The castle took up most of the tiny island it occupied, and the ruined wall he’d seen that morning looked like it had once risen straight up at the loch shore. There the water lapped at the medieval stonework, the better to keep enemy boats from landing. The castle’s outer curtain was now no more than a ragged line of rubble circling the outer bailey.
The loch lay at one end of a narrow valley that ran east to west. The land along the north sloped to low wooded hills, then erupted in round granite peaks just behind. A good-sized creek tumbled from behind one of the wooded hills, and ran a crooked course across the flat of the glen, between low stone walls that meandered here and there, to the loch. Wooded areas were mostly clustered on low hills and between the higher mountains, and the trees that were no longer green had turned fall colors of either yellow or brown. The southern perimeter was tightly defined by cliffs and steep, rocky slopes where very little vegetation clung.
The tiny village of Ciorram was no more than a few houses in a loose cluster near the castle’s drawbridge. They were small houses, one of peat grown over with moss and grass, and the rest of gray stone, each thatche
d with straw. They seemed to crouch low. Rows of mounds that looked like haystacks stood along a low stone wall. They had peaked tops, though, and on second glance didn’t look much like hay. Thatched haystacks?
Fields lay in narrow strips across the valley and up the gentle northern slopes as far as they could climb and still find arable land. Some were empty, some dotted with leaning sheaves that from a distance looked like an Indian village of miniature teepees. Some on down the valley were still high and silvery with their waving crop. In the distance more houses could be seen against the slopes, and the people wandered down from the surrounding hills in clusters to join the procession. Women gathered around Sarah, and men walked without speaking as the pipes called for all to mourn the passing of Alasdair Matheson. The glen was emptied in this way, and Clan Matheson crowded into and around a small churchyard at the foot of a granite cliff, where the east end of the small glen took a turn to the north.
The crowd held back while the bearers made three circles around a spot on the ground, clockwise, before setting down the body in its winding sheet. Dylan looked around and wondered why there was no grave dug, though some shovels stood against the stone church wall. Few of the graves bore markers, but it was plain the yard was crowded with many buried within the past couple of years. There were plots of all sizes, some appallingly small, outlined as fresh grass or disturbed ground. Not far from Alasdair’s intended resting spot was one fresh enough to have been dug since the last rain.
The church was small, but to Dylan’s twentieth-century eye it was elaborately appointed. The peaked roof was decorated with carvings, the door was a mass of Celtic knots carved deep into the wood, and a huge, round window of intricately stained and leaded glass dominated the face of the building. Dylan had no idea when it had been built, but even in this century it looked old and worn. Nevertheless, it was the cleanest and best-kept building in the glen, even more so than the castle.
Alasdair Matheson, recent victim of the ongoing conflict with English authority, was memorialized to the accompaniment of bagpipes, wailing women, and a long, tedious speech in Latin by a tall priest wearing black robes and an ornate, white and gold stole. Dylan stood with respect near the stone wall at the yard perimeter, at the edge of the cluster of stony-faced Matheson men from the castle, and struggled not to be caught up in the pain around him. Sarah stood with her three little boys, and he dared not look at her for fear he might lose his hard-won control. The oldest of the kids couldn’t have been more than five, and the youngest was barely walking. Way too young to lose their father.
Son of the Sword Page 6
