by Cathy MacRae
The six newcomers had almost reached the entrance to the house. I hurried up the trail, my boots—bound with strips of cloth to reinforce the worn soles—making no noise on the rocky path.
Sunlight glinted on large glass windows with rounded tops. It wasnae like Malcolm MacLeod to put all these windows in. ’Tis nae possible to defend the place with such luxuries, pretty though they were, and I remembered well the stories of the bitter feud between the MacLeods of Raasay and the MacLeods of Dunvegan, across the water on the isle of Skye. And, with the aftermath of Culloden in mind, the chief wouldnae have neglected protecting his own. Why, a bairn could toss a rock or two and scoot inside the broken window quick as an otter nipping under water.
A small door on the side of the rocked portal opened. “Welcome to Raasay House. We’ve been expecting ye.” A young woman waved the group closer. “Mind ye dinnae let the cold inside.”
They quickened their pace, jostling their bags from one hand to the other. One of the men took a stance in the doorway, holding it ajar for the others. I hurried, only a few paces behind the last as they filed inside. With respect for the solid portal, I jumped over the threshold as the man released it to swing shut in my face. I flinched against the anticipated crack of the wood against my elbow as I raised it to counter the closing door, wanting a moment alone with the lad for a chat about his rudeness. But the sting of injury never struck, and I watched, mouth agape, as the door passed seamlessly over me and closed behind.
It had happened enough times in the past two hundred and seventy years at the Culloden Visitors’ Centre that I shouldnae have been startled. But I’d anticipated a return to my earthly body in my quest to do my heroic deed. ’Twas not to be. I was clearly still a ghost.
