“Of course you weren’t. She didn’t know herself. She was never diagnosed, you see. And on our side of the line, we don’t attach clinical terms to a soul’s suffering in life. You might call it depression, perhaps even bipolar disorder. There is no way for us to know now. But she was an unhappy soul for reasons that were beyond her control. And her struggles, love, are something which you will never understand, because you do no’ suffer the same afflictions.”
“I didn’t know that,” Emmie repeated, somewhat apologetically. “How do you know all this?”
The woman flipped a hand. “How do we know anything over here? We just do. In the end, though, you triumphed from this experience.”
“Triumphed.” Emmie’s brows drew together.
“You did,” the woman insisted. “Because you were such an intuitive child, you were able to take what you perceived to be her weakness and make it your strength. In a way, her struggle was a gift, because it forged your character.”
“I want to believe that. But I can’t. I feel like I’m falling to pieces. Ever since… ever since him. Cael.”
The woman eyed her speculatively. “The countess wants her turn with you, and she’s quite annoyed with me for having taken so long. But I’ll say one last thing: Perhaps the Emmeline that you were trying so hard to construct is no’ the Emmeline that you’re meant to be. Perhaps becoming who you’re meant to be will be a difficult transition for you. You may no’ realize it, but this place, and Cael himself, are very much a part of what you’re destined for. We’re led to places, my dear. No one ever ends up anywhere by accident. You were led here. You’re meant to be here.”
“Why? What am I destined for?”
“If only I knew,” the woman said ruefully. “That’s for you to learn. But while you’re trying to figure it out, don’t fight it. Don’t try so hard to be someone you’ve mapped out in your head. Live your life and the answer will come to you.
“And don’t cancel your plans with that nice young man that wants to take you out,” she added. “You’ll dash his spirits something terrible.”
“Who—Dean?”
“Dean, yes. Go out with him. Have a meal. Have fun, for the good Lord’s mercy.”
Emmie had been contemplating cancelling her plans with Dean. She was thinking hard over the woman’s words, when the woman pressed her wrinkled hands to the table.
“And now, I’m afraid I cannot withhold the countess any longer. She’s determined to have her turn.”
“Turn?” Emmie asked, slightly nervous. But the lady just smiled. And faded away to nothing.
“Wait.” Emmie shot her hand forth, but the woman was gone.
Then the table began to fade, and was gone. Then the strange, sepia coloured daylight, and then the room itself, until she was left in total darkness.
“COUNTESS?” EMMIE CALLED into the black void. There was no response.
Wherever she was, it was deathly silent. Her breathing and hear heartbeat were thunderous in her ears. She was afraid to move, afraid to make any other sound. Her fingers gripped the edge of her chair, nails digging into the painted wood of the seat. Panic crept over her, bringing on the threat of new tears.
Keep calm, Em, she told herself. You won’t do yourself any good by freaking out. If the countess wanted to show her something, Emmie had to trust that she was in good hands. She had to; she had no choice.
Taking a few deep breaths for courage, she stood. The legs of the chair made a strange scraping sound. Muffled. Shuffling her feet in place, she realized that she was standing on a dirt surface.
To her right, voices sounded. They were faint at first, but grew louder, taking on a tinny quality. They were low and urgent, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. She strained, listening.
“Go,” came a whisper from behind her.
Emmie jumped, and whirled around. There was still nothing but blackness in all directions. But the air had become infused with the heady, stifling fragrance of roses.
When the roses are here, she’s here, the old woman had said of the countess. The roses were definitely here now. In fact, they were stronger than Emmie had ever smelled before. The countess must be very close.
As if to confirm her suspicion, the whisper came again. This time, it was right next to her ear.
“Go!”
“Go where?” Emmie reached through the dark, fingers groping for anything that might be out there. But there was nothing.
“Countess?”
Still nothing.
“Go where, for frig’s sake?” she muttered to herself. “Does anyone ever think that I don’t want to see what they have to show me?”
But even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true. If this had anything to do with Cael, then of course she wanted to know. Needed to know.
If the countess wanted her to “go,” then her only two choices were to disobey and stay put, or to walk blindly forward. Or backwards. Or, just… walk. Which is what she did. Hands waving back and forth in front of her, Emmie shuffled blindly along the dirt ground towards the distant voices.
She hadn’t gone far before the blackness began to shift and transform. Colour danced and blurred, then sharpened into distinct shapes.
Stunned, Emmie took an instinctive step back. She was outside, and it was night. She was standing in front of a primitive dwelling that might have come right off the set of Braveheart or Rob Roy. Two men stood off to the side of the squat stone building, holding the reins to three horses. It was too dark for Emmie to make out their faces well, but they were as rough and dangerous-looking as the men inside the castle of Cael’s memory.
She wasn’t afraid of them, though. She knew without having to be told that she was not really here. That this had all happened long ago, and she was only a voyeur in this picture. Indeed, when she approached the dwelling’s front door, the two men did not see her. The horses did not whicker at her approach. Nobody batted an eyelash when she pulled open the rough plank door and stepped through to the dimly lit, smoky interior.
Inside, in the centre of the room, two men sat together on a split log bench. A rock fire pit contained a low-burning peat fire, and both men were leaning towards it for warmth. They were deep in conversation.
Emmie approached them cautiously.
“He’s telling us we must resist them on our own,” one man was saying. He was short, but solid, like a boulder with arms and legs. Strands of stringy, greasy hair hung around his face and fell down his back. The man looked like he hadn’t bathed in a year. “On our own! We dinna have the men to do it.”
“Och, I dinna ken,” said the other man, taller, and softer around the middle, with ginger hair that looked like it had seen water and soap far more recently than his friend. “We’ve no guarantee that they’ll even attack again. We drove them off well enough the first time, d’ye no’ think?”
“Are ye daft, man? Drive them off once, they’ll only come back stronger. The MacIntoshes have the Crown on their side, dinna forget. They’ll no’ be giving up this land so easily.”
Emmie gasped silently. So she had been right! It was the conflict between the MacIntoshes and the MacDonalds of Keppoch that was central to Cael’s mystery. The conflict that destroyed Clan MacDonald of Keppoch. It had to be. The countess was providing her with a clue, with a direction.
Would she provide Emmie with the answer?
Emmie doubted she would be that lucky, but listened eagerly for more clues she might be able to pick up from these men.
“And why are ye so certain we’ll no’ be able to withstand them if they do attack again?” asked the second man. “We’ve a fine force. Young Cael and Master Lawren have seen to that.”
“Boys,” the first man spat. “Nobbut lads, the pair of them. What do they ken of war?”
The men both looked up at Emmie then. Her entire body froze, every muscle taught and ready to spring and flee. When a shape brushed past her, she nearly cackled with relief. A woman came towards the men from behind where she was sta
nding. She was dressed in a linen shift and holding two cups. They’d been looking at her, not at Emmie.
“Ah, thank ye, mo cridhe,” said the taller, softer man.
He accepted the cup which the woman held out for him, as did his companion. They both drank deeply as the woman moved back towards Emmie, passed her effortlessly, and crawled into a bed on the other side of the dwelling. As she tucked herself under the covers, two small shapes moved to absorb her into the sleeping tangle of flesh and blankets and warmth.
Children. There must be children in there. Emmie’s heart ached for these innocents, who had no idea of the devastation that would (if she’d guessed correctly about the time period) tear their world apart and put an end to their clan.
“Lads, just lads,” the smaller man repeated once he’d drained his cup.
“That as may be, but there’s half the clan that agrees wi’ them. And those are grown men. They believe we’ve a chance of wi’standing the MacIntoshes. What makes ye think they’re wrong?”
“They dinna believe we’ve a chance,” the first man argued. “They’re wi’ that bastard Cael because he’s got the ear of Himself.”
“Aye, so what can be done about it? If Himself is behind the lads, we must do as Himself bids.”
“That’s just the problem. The bastard has the ear of Himself because half the clan is behind him and Master Lawren. And the reason for that is because the bastard and Master Lawren have the ear of Himself.”
The second man shook his head, laughing. “I dinna ken what ye expect of me, then. It sounds like a hopeless situation.”
The first man glowered, and leaned closer. “We canna withstand a sustained war against the MacIntoshes. I ken ye think so, too.” When the taller man looked as though he thought this to be true, the smaller man continued. “Think of yer lads. Think of yer wife. D’ye want to leave them to the mercy of those bloody MacIntoshes? The men listen to ye. They follow what ye say. And if ye tell them they must no’ follow the bastard, they’ll listen.”
“I dinna ken.”
“Ye must ken! Cael MacDonald must be removed!”
The fair-haired man straightened, and looked at his companion in shock. “What—are we talking about killing him?”
The smaller man did not answer, simply stared at his host.
“This is madness,” the taller man objected. “I’ll no’ be killing young Cael. I’ll be having no part in this.”
“I’m no’ saying ye have to kill him. All ye have to do is get the men on our side.”
“But ye mean to have someone kill the lad.”
The first man nodded slowly. “Aye, I do. We do. All the men. The bastard must no’ be given the chance to change back the mind of Himself once we’ve convinced him no’ to stand against the MacIntoshes. The laird must be made to see that to fight is folly, and Cael must no’ be there to persuade him again.”
This weighed heavily on the mind of the second man. Emmie’s heart beat frantically as she listened to the conversation. This man, the taller, fair-haired man who looked like he bathed more regularly, obviously was a respected member of the clan. Was he the one that wronged Cael? Would he agree that Cael needed to be killed?
Emmie was nearly certain he would. So it came as a surprise when his answer suggested otherwise.
“I’ll no’ go against my laird. I’ll no’ defy Himself. Convincing the men that we must make the laird change his mind is one thing, but killing Cael is another. I’ll no’ defy my laird!”
They grew still then, and conversation ceased. Emmie waited, her frustration mounting as they continued to sit and watch the fire.
“What does this mean?” she shouted.
That’s when she realized that the flames of the fire weren’t moving. The men weren’t breathing.
The entire scene had frozen.
Emmie spun around, looking frantically about the unearthly still dwelling.
“What does this mean?” she shouted again, this time to the countess.
There was no response. Instead, the images in front of her disappeared as suddenly as if someone had turned out the lights. Emmie was plunged back into the darkness.
No, wait. Come back…
Filming of the ghost hunt had completed. While the cast of Haunted Britain bickered amongst themselves, the crew and technicians dismantled their equipment and shut the house back up. The main wing of Tullybrae had been returned to its usual state (though Lamb would disagree), and only a few stationary cameras and thermal monitors needed to be retrieved from the outlying areas.
Camera Man A was sent by the producer to take down the camera that had been set up in the last room of the upstairs corridor. He fumed as he stalked down the darkened hallway. Louise was threatening to take out a restraining order on him if he didn’t back off. How was that fair? He hadn’t done anything other than demand an explanation from her. Perhaps he should confront her husband, tell him how she’d used him, broken his heart, then treated him like dirt.
He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that when he walked through the open door of the small bedroom, he jumped at the sight of the girl sitting on a dusty box in the middle of the room with her back to the door.
It was the curator. The cute blonde girl that, for whatever reason, really didn’t want to be on camera.
“Dear God, love, you gave me a fright,” he declared. “I thought you was a ghost.”
Emmie twisted around, and looked at him. Her eyes held the slightly stunned look of someone who had just walked out of a movie theatre.
“You okay?” the camera man asked.
She looked around the room, as if looking for someone. Then her eyes landed on the camera tripod set up in the corner, and she grimaced.
“Ohhhh, God. That wasn’t there the whole time, was it?”
The man chuckled and flipped the light switch. Stark yellow light flooded the room from a single uncovered bulb. Emmie squinted at the sudden assault on her eyes.
“You’re awright,” he said. He crossed the room, stepping over boxes and piles of junk. “This camera went dead about an hour after we flipped the lights. Unless you’ve been in here all night, we probably missed you.”
“I hope so.” She stood and stretched the kinks out of her back. “You should remember to make sure the batteries are fully charged.”
“We do. This one had a full battery when we got here. It happens a lot in paranormal investigations.”
Emmie came up behind him as he began dismantling the tripod.
“Why is that?”
He shrugged. “No one knows for sure. One theory is that ghosts don’t have energy of their own, so they draw on energy surrounding them. Did you know that apparitions are most often seen just before a thunderstorm? Parapsychologists believe they’re able to draw from the electric charge in the atmosphere.”
“Interesting,” she said vaguely, staring at the camera in the man’s hand.
She wasn’t looking at the camera, she was testing out the atmosphere. Cael was here, hovering at the door. She could feel him. It must mean the old woman and the countess were gone, if he was no longer respecting the boundaries they’d set.
She wondered if he knew what the countess had shown her. Somehow, she thought not. In fact, she didn’t want him to know. Not yet at least. There was a puzzle she had to tease out. The man with the ginger hair had said he would not defy his laird. It was possible that he had gone back on his word, but Emmie doubted it. The conversation she’d witnessed hadn’t been an answer. It had only been another clue.
Half the men of the clan wanted to withstand the MacIntoshes, and half wanted to kill Cael. To what end, though?
That’s when she remembered the Campbells. The MacDonalds of Keppoch had appealed to the MacDonalds of Clanranald for help. The Campbells had seen this as a threat and joined with the MacIntoshes to wipe them out and steal their lands.
That must be it. Cael was advocating that the MacDonalds of Keppoch fight the MacIntoshes themselves. If they di
d that, the Campbells would not have been persuaded by the MacIntoshes to stand against them. Would that mean they would not have been wiped out?
She knew why Cael had been betrayed, but the question was…
Who had betrayed him?
A VICIOUS MIGRAINE was the first thing to greet Emmie on the morning of her date with Dean. The instant her eyes opened to the dishwater-grey light, a wave of nausea-inducing pain dug into the base of her skull. Emmie pitched forward, despite the pain of sudden movement, and groped blindly in the drawer of her bedside table for the half-full bottle of acetaminophen tablets she’d brought with her from Corner Brook. Locating the bottle, her fingers fumbled madly at the red plastic child-proof lid. It popped off with a satisfying poomph, and small, blue liqui-gel pills scattered onto the blankets like tiny marbles.
With two of the precious pills squeezed tightly in her fist (the others abandoned on the covers where they’d fallen) Emmie stumbled to the bathroom. Each footstep sent a fresh jolt of torture along her optic nerves, but she made it without being sick. She yanked open the stained brass taps, releasing a geyser-forced blast of ice cold water, from which she drank by snaking her head over the lip of the enameled, cast iron sink. Once she’d managed to slurp in a mouthful, she tossed the liqui-gels in and swallowed heavily.
Zombie-like, she padded back to her bedroom and eased herself under the covers, careful not to cause any more jarring of her brain than necessary. She clenched her eyelids tightly together, as much to block the residual morning light as to contain the rolling anguish that was still attacking her head with relentless triumph. She envisioned an anthropomorphized war between a great, hulking beast and an army of blue, jelly-like infantry taking place on the battlefield of her grey matter.
You’re going down, dude! she thought to the imagined beast as she prayed for blessed relief.
Cael was with her. Next to her. Unfailingly loyal, he’d known how much discomfort she would wake up to, and had been there since she opened her eyes. On the one hand, Emmie wished he’d go away. His dogged presence triggered thoughts, and those thoughts triggered pain. On the other hand, one of those thoughts was that she wanted nothing more than to forget everything, forget herself, and dissolve into nothingness with him. To know of nothing but his presence, his comfort…
The Ghosts of Tullybrae House Page 18
