The Ghosts of Tullybrae House

by Veronica Bale

  Though the chatter of the inhabitants was exclusively Gaelic, Emmie understood it, just as she had before. This was Cael’s memory, after all, and her command of a language she didn’t speak was due to him. It was an odd kind of understanding, the harsh, garbled syllables blending with a grasp of meaning that was as melodious as if she spoke it fluently.

  Through the honeycomb kitchens Cael brought her, not bothering to step aside for moving bodies. Emmie and he were the ghosts here, not these busy people. Faces passed, but the eyes did not see, the senses did not detect. She looked at these people, each one, and saw the contentment of every-day monotony in their countenances. They were as blissful as she when cataloguing. Emmie smiled, feeling somewhat of a kinship with these long-dead beings.

  They stopped when Cael decided they’d reached their destination. In a remote corner, a bread oven was being tended by a stout, grey-haired woman and a dark-haired boy about seven or eight years of age. Daylight from a nearby window, a vent for the oven, projected a shaft of light onto the boy’s dirty, gamin face.

  “That’s it,” she instructed him in a grandmotherly way. “There ye go. Put the faggots in through the door. Aye, just like that.”

  The boy struggled to lift a lit bundle of twigs, as wide around as he was and almost as long. He held the bundle at an awkward angle, careful to keep the burning ends away from flesh, clothing and hair. His small face was scrunched with effort, but not a sound escaped his lips. This was a boy who was bent on proving his manhood.

  Once the bundle had been shoved into the oven, the woman picked up a door of fired clay that had been leaning against the base, and covered the opening with exaggerated finality.

  “Grand. Just grand, wee Cael. And that’s that. We’ll let the oven heat for an hour or so, and then it shall be time to bake our bread.”

  “Cael, that’s you,” Emmie whispered. Her heart melted as the sweet little urchin looked up at his teacher with pride.

  Cael, who was still holding her hand, straightened with his own pride at the boy he’d once been. He gave her arm a gentle pull, moving her so that she was standing in front of him. When his arms encircled her middle and his chin rested on her shoulder, she tilted her head slightly to accommodate him. Her hands grasped the smooth sinew of his bare forearms, fingers pressing into the warm flesh.

  “We’ll make sure to tell yer father, aye?” the woman was telling Cael the child indulgently. “Himself will be so pleased wi’ how well ye’re learning the running of his castle.”

  The boy nodded solemnly, the weight of the responsibility taken in earnest. It reminded Emmie of that earlier memory of Cael and his father, the one where the clan chieftain publicly recognized him as his son, and bestowed upon him the gift of the ornate kilt pin to mark the occasion. Emmie knew now, thanks to Paul Rotenfeld at the University of Glasgow, that the clan chieftain was Angus MacDonald, second of Keppoch. There was no way this little boy could know it yet, but he would grow into a man that would please his father greatly. The future of Cael the child was mapped out already.

  In the midst of misty-eyed affection, the vision changed. The images of the kitchens, of the woman and of Cael as a child ran together like watercolour paint under a running tap. The light brightened, and when her vision sharpened again, Emmie blinked at the sudden materialization of a new memory.

  They were outside. The air was crisp, the sky bestowed with a gentle sun. Fresh dew dappled the blades of grass and dense scrub, making the hills look like a carpet of emeralds. Birdsong, high and tittering, indicated that it was morning, and judging by the fresh scent of delicate new growth, it was likely spring.

  From somewhere further out, the clang of metal on metal interrupted the birds. A chorus of cheering, rowdy voices rose up into the air.

  Cael released Emmie and straightened. She was disappointed at losing the intimacy, but was mollified when he took back her hand. Inclining his head towards the noise, he gave her a heart-stopping grin, and led her onward.

  Her first thought was that there was a duel, or a skirmish. She hoped he was not about to show her bloodshed. Injury and death did not belong to such a glorious morning as this. As they drew closer, the voices became clearer. They were male, and the telltale cracking of newly-deepening vocal chords suggested that they were boys on the cusp of their teen years. They, too, were speaking Gaelic.

  Cael halted when they reached the crest of a shallow ridge. Below, the land opened up into a flat plain where a number of boys, perhaps twelve or thirteen of them, were playing at swords. Beyond was the castle that was their home, and the outbuildings and dwellings that surrounded it.

  In the centre of the group were two boys. One was large and powerful, destined to be a fighter. He had long, messy hair which was braided, and which stuck out in odd spots. It made him look markedly frightening, though he couldn’t have been more than fourteen. He moved with the confidence born of his sheer size, all force and no strategy.

  The dark haired boy, his opponent, was everything this large young man was not. He was smaller by a head, and fine-featured, the gamin face of the kitchens developed into something that promised a quiet handsomeness. Lithe and graceful, he was outmaneuvering his opponent with every lunge and thrust of his blunt practice sword.

  He was winning, and he knew it.

  Cael’s hand tightened on hers, and his grin grew wider.

  “I see you.” Emmie nodded, smiling herself. “I’ve got it, you’re a superstar.”

  When a particularly brilliant feint, and then a swift upward thrust brought his larger, and very surprised opponent down, she nearly cheered.

  Cael the twelve-year-old laughed, and turned to another boy standing in the crowd that circled them. The other boy, short and solid, and with sandy-coloured hair, stepped into the ring. The pair hugged and clapped each other on the back, sharing the victory.

  The boy who had just lost sprang up from where he’d fallen unceremoniously on his backside. Thrusting a thick arm between the two boys, he shoved young Cael in the shoulder.

  “Ye bloody cheated, ye toll-toine.”

  “I did no’,” insisted young Cael. “Ye’re just sore ye lost, ye luinnseach mhor.”

  “Ye tricked me. Ye didna fight fair.”

  “Ballocks. Ye mind what Master MacBevan says: Chivalry is for the English. When ye’re fighting for yer life, there is only winning and dying.”

  “Aye, Tom. Ye’re no’ English, are ye?” Cael’s sandy-haired friend jeered.

  The boy called Tom looked like he wanted to hit one of them, but by the way the boys in the circle were starting to form groups around whichever opponent they were backing, he thought better about his odds. Instead, he picked up his practice sword and spat at Cael’s feet.

  “Tcha. It doesna matter ye won anyway, Cael. It doesna count when ye’re fighting a bastard.”

  Cael’s youthful face grew dark, and he took a single, menacing step forward.

  “What did ye call me?”

  “Ye’re nobbut a bastard,” the boy repeated. “No’ worth an old whore’s pap.”

  Of the two of them, it was the sandy-haired boy that took the most offense to this.

  “Ye’ll look no better than an old whore’s pap by the time I’m done wi’ ye,” he shouted, and then lunged forward, teeth bared like a wild animal.

  Anticipating his friend’s attack, Cael darted around behind Tom, jumped on his back and threw a slender arm around his neck. The effect was to wrench an unsuspecting Tom’s head back, giving Cael’s friend a split second of surprise to land a punch square to the jaw.

  Tom staggered and fell, landing on Cael. But Cael held on, wrestling the larger boy until he was on top of him. From there, Cael’s friend jumped in, and it was soon a brawling, wrestling tangle of arms and legs. The boys who had been watching broke their respective ranks, forming a circle again, and cheering and egging the three boys on as they punched, kicked, bit and generally slugged it out.

  A shout from the near distance worked
its way into the screams and cursing. “Lawren! Cael!”

  From the direction of the castle, an older boy approached the circle at a run. He was perhaps not yet twenty, but was already showing the signs of heavy work. Or training, if that work was with a Highland broadsword. He was lithe and graceful in his strength, much the way Cael was, but with the sandy-coloured hair of the other boy.

  Reaching the mass of flailing limbs, the young man began tearing the boys apart.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, the collar of a homespun tunic in each hand with Cael dangling from one and Lawren from the other. “Lawren, ye wee grouse, ye ken better than to be fighting. Is this how we treat our kinsmen?”

  “He called Cael a name, Ennis,” Lawren jutted his chin out and pointed accusingly.

  “Aye, and I just called ye a grouse, but ye’re no’ having a go at me.”

  “But he called Cael a bastard.”

  This insult, apparently, was unacceptable. Ennis’s head turned ominously towards Tom, who stood defiantly with his hands on his sturdy hips. His eyes narrowed to slits and raked Tom from head to toe.

  “Ye’ll mind yer tongue when ye speak to my brother.”

  “Yer bastard brother,” Tom taunted.

  Unwise. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Ennis dropped the shirt collars he was holding, and slugged Tom in the gut. Tom doubled over like a sack of grain, and all the boys who had been watching, whether they’d been cheering on Tom or Cael, began to laugh and point as Tom curled into the fetal position.

  Ennis glared at Cael and Lawren in turn, and pointed a finger at them.

  “Dinna ye dare tell Father.”

  Then he put an arm around each boy, and with one backwards glance of distaste, he led them away.

  Emmie understood what Cael was trying to show her, remembered the names from his earlier memory. These young men, Lawren and Ennis, were his brothers, and Cael was trying to impress upon her that they were close. The circumstances of their births—Lawren and Ennis legitimate, and Cael not—had not in any way damaged or stunted their bond of kinship.

  Cael was telling her that he believed neither Lawren nor Ennis had anything to do with his death. But then, Emmie already knew Ennis couldn’t have. He died before Cael had been recognized officially as the son of Angus MacDonald. Her earlier, fleeting suspicion that Lawren had betrayed his half-brother out of jealousy did not fit with what she was seeing here. These boys loved each other.

  She looked at Cael. There was sadness in his eyes as he surveyed the remembered scene. She squeezed his hand reassuringly. He squeezed back.

  “I don’t think it was your brothers either,” she told him.

  The vision once again changed, shapes and images running together like water. The light dimmed, and when the vision cleared, it was night. The dark, starless sky was visible through the narrow slits of windows, and the stone walls of the great hall flickered orange with firelight. Unlike the last time Cael showed her this place, there was not the gaiety of a meal. This time, the hall was empty, cleared of trestle tables, mangy, unkempt dogs, and even mangier clansmen and women.

  In all, this memory had a much more sombre feel to it. Something was going on—a meeting or discussion. In the middle of the room, in front of the blazing central fire pit, was a group of perhaps twenty men or so, and in the centre of those men was Cael. He was the age he was now, the only age he would ever reach, and he spoke animatedly to the men around him. At his side was the chieftain of the MacDonalds of Keppoch, Angus MacDonald. He listened to his son, now a confirmed member of the clan, beaming with immense pride.

  And why should he not be proud? Cael was a handsome man, a born leader. He held his audience captive with every word, every gesture, every inflection of voice.

  “We must strengthen our defenses,” he was arguing. “Fortify our weak spots around the perimeter of the castle. The eastern gate sustained damage in the attack, did it no’?”

  “Aye, Cael,” confirmed a wiry, older man. “The trellis was battered in. ’Twill take a day or two to fix.”

  “Put MacCrioch on it,” ordered Angus. “If Cael says it must be repaired, then that is my decree.”

  “And the watch,” Cael continued. “We must double our numbers.”

  “Consider it done, Cael,” declared a tall, muscular man. An obvious fighter.

  “And we’ll patrol heavier, too,” Cael added. “I promise ye this, lads: When those bloody MacIntoshes come back, we’ll be ready for them. They’ll no’ be taking our land from us. We can resist. We will resist.”

  The men around him cheered and whooped, and fawned Cael with praise, which he was happy to accept.

  But not everyone in the group was happy. There were two who stood on the fringe who were not as enthusiastic as the rest. Emmie glanced behind where she and Cael stood, surveying the larger hall. That’s when she noticed the other three men standing outside the main doors. Their arms were crossed over their chests, and they watched the oration with obvious hostility.

  She tried to alert Cael to what she was observing. She tugged on his hand.

  “There are men over there,” she said, pointing.

  He stared at her, and shook his head, perplexed. This baffled Emmie. Was Cael unable to hear her? Was she unable to tell him things, to help him put the pieces of his murder together? He seemed to understand that she was trying to tell him something, he just couldn’t figure out what it was. He didn’t even seem interested, come to think of it. He turned back to the image of himself, reliving that moment that had played itself out hundreds of years into the past.

  “Not everyone agrees with you,” she said anyway.

  The thought occurred to her that he might not be able to see them, even if he could hear. If this was his memory, then it was likely he would only be able to see what he remembered. And if he hadn’t seen those in the crowd and on the fringes who were displeased with his plan when he was alive, then he probably wouldn’t see them now.

  If that was true, then it would be up to her to see what Cael could not. If she was going to solve his mystery for him, Emmie would need to observe and remember small clues like this. She committed to memory the faces of the men who were against Cael’s plan. Next time, when the colours would shift again, the light would change, and another memory would come into focus, Emmie was determined that she would not allow herself to be distracted. She would be the watcher of forgotten details.

  But this time, the light didn’t change. The colours didn’t blend. Instead, they were walking. Cael led her out of the great hall, through the castle corridors, and out a small door into the night beyond. The cold, sharp air filled Emmie’s lungs as she took a deep breath. The scents of the Highlands were invigorating, no matter what the time or century. The surety of Cael’s hand, and his strong, confident presence, made her feel secure. Safe and at peace.

  The direction in which they went took them past the cluster of dwellings skirting the perimeter of the castle. Occasionally, hushed voices drifted through the crudely covered windows, hinting at various degrees of domesticity within. Cael brought Emmie to a small hut with a thatched roof at the very edge of this little development. Despite its small and unassuming size, it was neatly constructed, and had and air of quiet pride about it.

  The wooden shutters on this hut were open despite the chill in the air. Cael let go of Emmie’s hand. Resting his palms on her shoulders, he moved her so that she was standing at the window. His cheek was close to hers, smooth and soft at her temple. His dark hair tickled her neck, and she had a sudden desire to turn her face into it and breathe in the scent of him. Woodsy, smoky. Alive.

  This desire made her heart ache. Being near him, it was so… wonderful. Too wonderful. Once this memory ended and she was transported back to Tullybrae, there only to have the intangible sensation of his presence, it would hurt terribly. To know he was there but to have nothing of him to touch, to hold. Nothing of him even to see.

  But at least she had
now. For however short a time, she could put the inevitable hurt in the back of her mind, and just let everything be wonderful. She leaned against him, felt him lean his cheek into her, and together they watched the memory Cael wanted Emmie to see.

  This memory was of himself and a woman. His mother. She had the same strong, clear brow, the same dark hair and dark eyes. She was a beautiful woman, fine boned and fine featured. A delicate, feminine version of her son. There wasn’t much to this vision other than a sense of familial tranquility, but this was what he wanted her to know. Mother and son were engaged in a companionable silence, comfortable with their lot in life and with each other. The Cael inside the hut whittled a piece of wood while his mother mended a shirt. The pop and hiss of the peat fire in the pit between them was the only sound.

  Emmie envied it. Envied them. They may not have much, but they were happy. They were a family. It had never been like that for her with the Tunstalls. Grace and Ron had wanted it to be, and so did Emmie. But that feeling of family had never solidified for her.

  Once, a long time ago, when Emmie was maybe ten years old, she and Grace tried to make raspberry Jell-O together. They’d followed all the instructions and left it in the fridge for the required time. For one reason or another, though, it had never set quite right. It was mostly wobbly, but still a little runny. They’d eaten it, and they’d laughed, and their lips had turned unnaturally red, and they’d acted as though it was as good as proper Jell-O. But they had both known there was a measure of pretending in there. That’s what it felt like for Emmie, living with the Tunstalls.

  “Your Jell-O’s set just fine,” she said, more to herself than to Cael.

  In response, he pressed his lips to her temple. Emmie closed her eyes—heaven help her, she could lose herself in this memory happily if given the choice, and never find her way back.