Entwined

by Elizabeth Marshall

  “Any idea where we are?” Jenny asked, interrupting Graham’s thoughts.

  “Somewhere in the Highlands, I think,” Rose said, with an uncertain shrug. “According to Robert, Simon hasn’t much idea where we are. He’s following the map Eilidh gave him but I don’t think it’s an area he is familiar with.”

  “She’s awake!” Jenny cried, noticing Corran’s eyelids flicker and open.

  Rose sprang to her feet with the child in her arms and lurched across the lorry to Corran’s side.

  Corran’s lips moved but there was no sound from them.

  “What’s happening?” Rose said, turning to Graham.

  “She’s trying to talk,” he replied, lowering his ear to her lips.

  “We’re all here, Corran, you are going to be OK,” Graham said softly.

  “Grace… Get me… Grace,” Corran breathed as consciousness slowly returned.

  “Mum, she wants you.”

  Jenny stepped back, away from the mattress. Grace nudged in closer and knelt beside Corran, taking her hand in hers. Grace gasped at the icy touch of the woman’s skin and turned a startled face to Graham.

  He nodded reassuringly at her. “She can hear you, Grace. Just talk to her.”

  “I’m here, love,” Grace whispered giving Corran’s cold hand a gentle squeeze.

  “Grace,” Corran murmured.

  “I’m here.”

  “Look after, please…”

  “Look after what, Corran?”

  “My… My son.”

  Grace’s eyes filled with tears and she bit back a sob.

  “Don’t talk silly, Corran. There’s going to be no need for that.”

  “I mean it…Please, promise me.”

  “OK, I promise, but you’ve got to keep fighting. Do you hear me, Corran Campbell? Don’t you dare give up now. This little boy needs you.”

  A single tear trickled from Corran’s eye and ran slowly down her cheek. Grace squeezed the lady’s hand tighter, willing her strength and courage.

  “His, name is Andrew,” she whispered. “Call my boy Andrew.”

  Grace turned her head to Graham, tears now streaming down her face. “Help her, please?” she mouthed, lifting her arm and wiping it across her face.

  “Corran?” Graham said, lowering his face to hers. “Can you hear me?”

  Corran nodded weakly, “Yes…Doctor, I can hear you,” she spluttered.

  “You are not going to die.”

  She closed her eyes and drifted back into unconsciousness.

  “Shall I take him for bit, Rose? You look shattered,” Grace asked.

  “Yeah, go on then. He’s done with this feed but he still needs winding.”

  Grace lifted the child from Rose, and gently cradled him in her arms.

  Gazing down into his little face, his features started to blur. Grace blinked hard to clear the fog. Her mind drifted into a dream like daze until she was alone, in another time and place. She was running, towards a school field. A rhythmic chant bellowed from a swarm of children, gathering on a school field. Instinctively, Grace understood that a fight was brewing. Drawing closer to the crowd, she made out a flurry of activity in its center. She recognized one of the children, as if he were her own. His name rolled off her tongue and Grace understood that this child was her responsibility.

  She watched in disbelief as he casually released an older child from a headlock. The boy stumbled before bending double, clutching his stomach in agony. Without warning, Brody fisted his hand and punched the boy, square on the underside of his chin. His neck snapped, sharply backwards, blood splattered the faces of those watching and he fell heavily to the ground with a bone cracking thud. The crowd let out a stunned gasp. Grace stared in a nauseated daze at the child’s lifeless body. The crowd pushed in around the boy. Brody stepped back, as if to admire his work, before calmly turning and walking away from the crowd. Grace ran towards him and grabbed his arm. He swung swiftly around and for a split second, their eyes locked. She read pleasure and a deep satisfaction in his look, but she saw something else in those blazing eyes. She saw shocked surprise, not regret, but astonishment at what he had done. As quickly as these emotions were acknowledged by Grace, they were gone from her son’s eyes. He reached out for his mother hand and clasped it.

  “He started it -” he began.

  Grace started to pull the boy away from the field.

  “He’s dead!” a boy in the crowd shouted.

  Grace, started to run towards the car park, pulling Brody behind her.

  “What the hell happened?” Robert shouted, when he saw the bloody mess Brody’s face.

  Neither Grace nor the boy answered him.

  “Grace, what happened?” Robert boomed, more firmly.

  Grace ignored him, knocking the gear stick into first, she drove them steadily out of the car park before pressing her right foot to the floor and changing straight into third and then swiftly into fifth.

  “Will someone tell me what happened?”

  “It looked to me like a boy died,” the child in the backseat said, gazing out of the window.

  Grace glanced in the rear view mirror and watched his face. His look was vacant and disinterested, as if he had just passed a casual comment about the weather. An ambulance tore past them, heading in the direction of the school. Again, Grace watched the boy’s face, hoping to gauge his reaction, but there wasn’t one. He simply watched it hurry past, as if he had no knowledge of its destination.

  As fast as the fog had descended on Grace’s mind, it cleared and she was back, in the lorry, with the baby in her arms. She felt as though she had just watched a nightmare, seen her past or glimpsed some terrible premonition.

  She glanced down at baby Andrew, at his little button nose and the mop of matted black hair that coiled on the top of his head. Grace knew she had to move past the daydream, past the knot it had left in her stomach and onto the job at hand. A dying woman had placed this baby’s care in her hands and to that end Grace pushed the memory of the dream to the back of her mind.

  ******

  CHAPTER 34

  “Are you certain, Sir, that these directions are correct?” Robert asked, squinting against the darkness ahead.

  “No, Mr. Hamilton, I am not,” Simon replied sardonically, maneuvering the lorry around another sharp right hand bend. He felt the top of the lorry lurch to the side and held his breath. His heart pounded in his ears as the road narrowed and dipped before him. Another tight bend and then another steep descent. One after another the bends came, tighter and tighter on the uneven, icy stretch of mountain road. Simon had long since given up checking his mirror and the onboard camera for signs of the following lorries and van. He had lost interest in them. His mind was focused on only one thing. His wife and the time he had left to save her.

  “Eilidh mentioned that this part of the journey would be difficult,” Simon said, as the road veered sharply left.

  “Sir, difficult is not a word I would use to describe this journey.”

  Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead, Simon arched his brow. “Oh aye, Robert. How would you describe it then?”

  Robert turned his head to Simon.

  “I think, Sir, that my thoughts are better kept to myself.”

  At that Simon laughed as he had a fair idea which words the man would have chosen to use, had he not been such an irritating gentleman.

  “I fear that the worst is yet to come,” Simon said, baiting him to use the words he knew were on the tip of his tongue, but instead Robert remained measured and considered in his speech.

  “Why would that be, Mr. Campbell?”

  Simon lifted his eyes momentarily from the road to glance at Robert.

  “Would you do something for me, please, Robert?”

  “Yes, Sir, what is it you require?”

  “Please cease your use of the words ‘Mr. Campbell’ or ‘Sir’ when addressing me. I am indeed Mr. Campbell but I would prefer you not to address me as such and
a Sir, I am definitely not.”

  Robert hesitated, moving his eyes to look long and hard at the man controlling the giant machine.

  “What is it you would rather be addressed as?” he asked, eventually.

  “Simon, plain old Simon will do me very nicely,” he said, maneuvering the lorry at a ridiculous speed around yet another sharp bend. “As for your other question; I think it is perhaps better that you don’t know.”

  Robert raised his eyebrows, in much the same fashion as Simon would have.

  “If that is your wish, Simon, then I await the more difficult part of the journey with complete faith in your ability to guide us through it.”

  Simon shook his head, thinking as he did that the man was quite the most irritating character he had ever known, but resolved not to let it distract him.

  He knew what was coming and braced himself. He had either to trust in Eilidh’s words or forfeit everything. Cowardice was something he detested, but staring ahead at what he knew to be a sheer drop off the edge of a mountain, he couldn’t help a moment’s hesitation, the briefest of panic and a silent prayer. A thought flickered through his mind. Could the slate Duncan found in the tunnel have been meant for him? Was this what it was meant to be warning him about? This moment when the lives of so many hung on his decisions, his courage and ultimately his trust in Eilidh, the heather, the Highlands and the Stag. Simon shook his head and lifted his hand momentarily from the wheel to feel for the slate in his jacket pocket. He drew strength from its words, courage from the message, but pained at the loss that had brought them to him. His head throbbed with the sound of his pounding heart. A light dew of sweat clung to his face, his hands tensed on the wheel and his knuckles whitened.

  “Brace yourself, man,” Simon said, closing his eyes as the headlights of the lorry showed the end of the road at the edge of the cliff, as if the sea had claimed it.

  Robert gave a deep guttural grunt as his eyes focused and he suddenly understood Simon’s intention.

  “Are you out of your mind, Sir?” he shouted as the lorry approached the cliff edge.

  Instinctively Simon inhaled what he believed could be his last breath and drove his right foot hard to the floor. His thoughts were racing between faith in the protection of the heather, the diminishing power of the Stag, his wife, Corran, in the back of the lorry, and the faith his passengers had put in him, Eilidh and the magic of the Highlands. The lorry sped up, coming ever closer to the end of the road. Simon realized that he had gone past the point of no return and could not stop the lorry or avoid going over the precipice now.

  Robert leaned back, grabbed the edge of the seat with his left hand. His right hand flew up to his forehead. Then in the simple gesture of a man who believed himself about to die he made the sign of the cross as the vehicle flew over the cliff’s edge.

  Simon had expected to feel the cab lurch forward and drop into open space, the lorry’s engine to scream the moment the wheels freed themselves from earth’s surface, then the sickening seconds of freefall to blackness. Perhaps he expected sudden death, pain even, but what he hadn’t expected was to feel nothing. As the lorry flew off what he thought to be a cliff’s edge, he felt nothing but the drone of the engine and the roll of its wheels. He stared, eyes wide as a sea of twinkling lights came into view. Tiny, flickering flames lined the street ahead. He blinked hard.

  “Mr. Hamilton, are we alive?”

  “Yes, Sir, I do believe we are.”

  Grateful to be alive, Simon, ignored the fact that, Robert, had reverted to calling him, ‘Sir’ and lifted his right foot to let the lorry glide gently to a halt beside the line of light. Anxious faces, illuminated by the candles they were holding stared up at him from their position on the side of the track. A bright light shone from behind him. He cast a quick glance in his side mirror. One of the following lorries pulled up behind him.

  His mind was dazed, his heart still beat fervently in his chest. His right hand flew out and grabbed the door handle. The tiny flames drew closer, their bearers converging on him. He flung the driver’s door open and ran to the back of the vehicle. His fingers fumbled with the catch. It freed and he pulled hard, throwing the back doors wide open.

  “How is she?” he demanded, lurching himself up into the lorry.

  Graham shook his head, slowly.

  “I’m sorry, Simon…”

  Simon dropped to the floor beside his wife and slid his hands urgently under her back and knees.

  “Get out of my way,” he screamed, to the anxious faces crowding in around his wife.

  Gently he lifted her from the mattress into his arms.

  “Simon, you can’t help her,” Graham said, laying his hand on the man’s arm.

  “I told you to get out of my way,” Simon growled.

  “Put her down, Simon,” Graham coaxed, undeterred by the madness in Simon’s eyes.

  “Not while there is a breath left in her body will I give up the fight for her life. Now do as I say, man, and move.”

  “Simon. Let her be,” Robert said, coming to stand beside him.

  Simon stood in the doorway to the lorry, his wife’s limp and dying body in his arms. Looking out at the faces below him he took a deep breath and bellowed.

  “Take me to the Stag.”

  “It is dying, Sir, it cannot help you,” a young man replied.

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion on its state of health, lad. I asked you to take me to the Stag.”

  “We will take you to it,” came a frail, trembling woman’s voice from the crowd.

  She stepped forwards to make herself known but Simon had no need to see her face, he already knew who the old lady was.

  “Help her, Marta,” he pleaded.

  “I will try,” she said, pausing to cast her eyes over the faces in the lorry. “Where is Eilidh?”

  “She is lost, Marta. I am sorry.”

  Marta nodded slowly, then turned to face the villagers.

  “Eilidh is lost to us,” she said, letting the night air carry her whisper to the ears of her people.

  The crowd stilled and for a moment an uneasy silence fell upon them.

  “Do not avenge her death, or her sacrifice will have been vain. Stay strong my people and stick to the principles which have held us together. You will not fail. Now go,” she said, waving her hands, “and settle our new friends. Return them to their families and may you all live in peace and prosperity.”

  With tired aging eyes she turned from the crowd to face Simon. “Come with me.”

  ******

  CHAPTER 35

  ‘The Village’, North West Highlands of Scotland - 21st December, Modern Day

  He followed her past the mass of people and lights that crowded the lorry, along the banks of a loch, through a small village of tiny cottages and then out into a clearing in front of an ancient forest. The old woman moved swiftly as the fallen animal came into view.

  “Here,” she said, pointing sadly to the Stag. “Now you can see why it can no longer help you.”

  Simon ignored the old woman and dropped to his knees beside the creature, lowering Corran gently to the ground. He couldn’t let this happen. Not now. After everything they had been through, after all the things they had done, he would not let it end here. He wasn’t a man to beg, but for Corran, he would do anything. “Take me,” he whispered to the Stag. “Please, she is far more important to this world, to these people than I could ever be. I don’t deserve this chance to live whilst she lies here dying in my arms. It can’t happen… How can you let it happen?!” Tears streamed down his face as he screamed in anger. “It was I who took her out of innocence, my people who attacked hers all those years ago! I have taken far more lives than I wish to recall, so why am I still here and it is my wife who lies here dying!?” Simon’s shouts of anger and desperation turned to a quiet whisper, “I can’t do this alone. Please, don’t make me…” he pulled Corran’s body closer to his own, cradling her, holding her, not willing to let her go. �
�Take me…”

  The Stag lifted its head and turned slowly towards Simon. Its soft hazel eyes locked with his and in that moment they became one. He felt its power and understood its purpose as it drew him deeper into the darkness of what had been and what was to come. Simon raised his hands to the side of his head, clasping it with his palms as a band of pain encircled and squeezed his skull until he felt as though it were being crushed. He screamed in agony and tried to shut his eyes, to block the reflected images. Except he couldn’t. He was locked in its trance, his eyelids unblinking, his soul forced to bear witness to the truth. Hell burned as darkness rose and lives entwined and twisted before him.

  “Hello, Simon.”

  He cast his eyes around, trying to establish the direction from which the voice had come. The sound seemed to surround him, emanating from every way at once. He hadn’t moved from where he had been, but Corran, Marta and the Stag were no longer there. The night air had become so overwhelmingly immobile and crushingly heavy that he struggled for breath.

  “What’s going on? Where’s Corran?” Simon shouted.

  “Calm down, Chief! I need you to focus. Corran is fine, and she will survive.”

  A huge wave of relief rushed through Simon at the words but his eyes still frantically searched the darkness for his wife.

  “Tell me what’s going on…” Simon demanded, through gritted teeth.

  “I will. In time,” the voice replied, frankly.

  “What…What are you?”

  “I am the Stag.”

  “Aye, well I guess that was a stupid question. Why am I here?”