by Carmen Caine
“Mother of all,” she swore. What did their names matter?
She cursed again; her mind was racing and fixating on the most trivial points. She had to face the magnitude of her mistakes. She should not have risked lingering in the wood when she knew there were men nearby, and she never, ever should have chanced removing her hood. No buck was worth discovery, even one as grand as that which had been in her sights.
“Damn him,” she swore as she lamented the wealth of meat and the fine pelt lost because of their chance meeting.
Finally, she glimpsed her home outlined against the twilight. Situated near the cliffs on the western edge of the island, her hut stood just beyond the Dervaig Stones. Centuries before, the stones towered above the earth, in a long line. The women of Shoney’s descent worshiped amid the tall stones, but war and weathering brought about the collapse of many. The alignment’s former glory lived on in stories passed from generation to generation. To Shoney they were sisters asleep on an earthly bed, and the power of the stones remained undiminished in her heart.
She shivered as the last light vanished and darkness fully ascended. Her pulse began to race as she tried to limp faster, but her foot caught on a jutting rock, and she stumbled, landing on the game birds, which hung from her belt.
Mother of all, could this day just end?
Hobbling past the Dervaig Stones, her resolve and strength began to return. Darkness had always been her weakness, even when her mother was alive. Tomorrow she would pray again to the goddess of shadows for courage to face her fear.
She opened the heavy wooden door and passed into her small stone hut. The oversized entrance, better suited for a large abode, was fashioned with intimidation in mind. Dragons and other fierce animals were carved into the surface, and in the center was the head of a serpent baring sharp fangs. It was one of many devices the women of Shoney’s descent used over the years to stave off harassment from the clan. Feeling the weight of it and hearing the loud thud as it closed behind her gave Shoney the reassurance needed to rid her mind of the last dwindling notions of terror. She swept the heavy folds of the Witch’s cloak off her shoulders and breathed a sigh of relief as she hung it on a peg and turned away. It would be ignored until she ventured out again.
In the center of her hut, she knelt by the fire pit. Soon warm crackling flames illuminated her surroundings, but the comforts of home provided only a momentary respite from her troubled thoughts. Something unprecedented had occurred: she had been seen. She now existed to the outside world.
Unable to reconcile herself to the reality of the day’s events, she could not begin to consider the consequences sure to arise from her carelessness. Would this Ronan connect the girl in the forest to the Witch? She removed the hood of the cloak to shoot the stag but not the cloak itself. In one day, all of life’s certainties had receded into memory, and she faced a new world, one in which the secret of the Witch of Dervaig might have been discovered at last.
Perhaps right at that very moment, the giant, backed by the might of his whole army, was crossing the moors, armed with swords and torches. They would drag her out from the safety of her hut and burn her alive.
She shook her head. She was being foolish; even if Ronan were to figure out who she was, nothing would change. For generations, her forbears disguised themselves as the Witch, and the clan had yet to muster the courage to purge their island of her so-called black soul. Whether crone or maid, they would still be afraid…she hoped.
This Ronan, despite his great size, hid from the Witch in the forest. He feared her as much as anyone else.
Ronan.
His name echoed in her mind. She could not recall why it sounded so familiar, and then she remembered. Her mother gleaned details about clan life from stories told by her lover. She always said there were only two good things that came from her brief love affair: Shoney and knowledge. As it turned out, a deeper understanding of their neighbors was Shoney’s only legacy from her father. He fled Brethia’s side before Shoney’s birth, and Brethia had refused to speak of him except when instructing Shoney in the ways of the clan. She asserted it was essential to their survival.
Her father described two competing clans living on their island, the MacLeans to the south and the MacKinnons to the north. According to MacKinnon law, Shoney’s home was on their land, although she was certainly not governed by their law or by their leader whom Brethia called laird or chieftain. If Shoney remembered her lessons correctly, the laird of the MacKinnon was named Nathair, and he had a son whom he called Ronan.
Her eyes widened. She had indirectly rendered the future chieftain of the Clan MacKinnon unconscious. She remembered how he looked as she peeked at him over the ravine edge. He was lying on his back, and beneath his head gathered a small pool of blood. She thought at first he was dead, but then he groaned, causing her such surprise that she scurried back and darted into the woods and did not stop running until she cleared the forest.
She shrugged off her fear. Mayhap he did die, and she had naught for which to worry.
It was no less than he deserved. She tracked the buck and took first aim. Besides, he was of the clan, a Gael. The clansfolk had branded all of Shoney’s ancestors as witches, long before the legend of the Witch of Dervaig had taken root, but they were not witches. They were Picts.
She doubted whether Ronan even knew of the ancient people who lived and died on her island long before the Gaels came to stake their claim. The Picts were a magnificent people. The women fought as warriors alongside their men. Together, they safeguarded their kingdom against the Roman, Angle, and Viking campaigns, but it was the Gaels who finally broke through their defenses. Their arrival marked the beginning of the end for the Picts. They infiltrated Pictish lands and society with the goal of establishing a Scottish crown, and in time, they succeeded.
Kenneth MacAlpin was the son of a Gaelic warrior and a Pictish princess, and, because the Pictish throne was inherited though the maternal line, he stood in striking distance from the crown. When called upon, his Pictish mother legitimated his claim, believing in his commitment to the Picts. Then he met his mark in battle defeating all other challengers and became king. Once in power, he betrayed his mother by ruling that the crown would pass to the closest male relation on the father’s side. In the end, he demonstrated his true allegiance by ensuring a Gael sat upon the throne even upon his death.
Only with further bloodshed could the Picts take back the throne, and after centuries of war, they had little fight left. Besides a few minor uprisings, the Picts ceased to rebel, ultimately ushering in the age of their own demise. They had to submit to a new language, a new law, and a new god, or they were banished and became recluses like Shoney’s mother and her mother’s mother, going back centuries. Little evidence remained to prove the Picts even existed. It was as if they were consumed by the Gaels, absorbed into the body of Gaelic tradition. Only women like Shoney remained trained in the art of healing and charms, celebrating the gods of the land, sea, and sky, but even she could only speak the Gaelic language. Pictish had long since been forgotten.
Not only was Ronan of Gaelic descent, but to make matters worse, the MacKinnons were the direct descendants of King MacAlpin himself. Shoney’s hand closed into a tight fist. Fury took hold of her every time she remembered this ancient betrayal. As usual she found herself wishing for something to strike, but now she could imagine her target—Ronan’s face.
Shoney’s forebears suffered centuries of prejudice and abuse, but all that stopped with Tharain. She was Shoney’s great-great-grandmother and the first to don the cloak and feign the extravagant hobble of the Witch of Dervaig. A legend was then born. Tharain hid her own daughter from sight, and when her daughter grew they took turns using the cloak. The villagers only saw the Witch, but all the while it was a disguise used by both women and then passed down from generation to generation.
As a young girl, Shoney remembered never being permitted beyond the confines of their back garden, which faced ou
t to sea. Her mother draped herself in the ugly folds of the witch’s cloak and bid her stay put before she set out to hunt or gather fresh herbs. She remembered asking her mother—whose beauty rivaled the most vibrant sunset—why she wore the cloak and made herself appear ancient and grotesque. She told Shoney she terrified the people as an old crone. She said it was a trick she learned from her own mother. A repulsive hag evoked greater fear in the hearts and minds of the villagers, which ensured they kept their distance.
Although not everyone stayed away, they had the occasional midnight visitor.
Every now and then when the moon was high, there came a soft rapping on the door. Her mother would sweep the cloak over her shoulders and motion for Shoney to hide. With a candle in hand, Shoney climbed down into a deep dug-out concealed by a trap door beneath the table, which was built by Tharain for the purpose of concealing her own beloved daughter. Shoney sat very still and listened. It was always the same. A woman had stolen away in the night to seek out the aid of the Witch of Dervaig. Her monthly flow had stopped; her monthly flow would not stop; her child was ill; her husband refused to pick up a plow; faeries were stealing their goat’s milk. Depending on the complaint, her mother would whisper charms or send her home with potions or poultices.
One night, Shoney climbed out from her hiding place after hearing the thud of the great door, signifying the woman’s departure. She asked her mother how the clansfolk could hate them so but still come to beg for relief.
“They come in secret,” her mother answered. “’Tis a secret they keep from their men, from each other, even from themselves. They come because they feel I am their last hope.”
She held in her hands a bowl with murky water, the remains of a potion. Shoney knew she would go outside and pour it into the ground among the sacred stones as a prayer of gratitude to the Mother of all for the power to heal. As she opened the door to leave she turned to Shoney and said, “They come because their god does not hear the voices of women.”
“If they will not speak of their visit to anyone, why must I hide?”
“Because you are precious to me. ‘Tis the duty of all mothers to protect their children.”
Shoney scowled at her mother in frustration. Then Brethia put down the bowl and cupped Shoney’s cheeks in her hands. “I know you feel like a bird whose wings have been clipped, but the cage that awaits you out there I cannot save you from forever. You will be desired for your beauty, but your name demands you be loathed. The blending of desire and hate will create deception, desperation, and pain. I will shield you from this fate for as long as I live, but after I die, it will be up to you.” Her mother placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and smiled her beautiful smile, and then she left.
For a moment, Shoney felt her mother’s presence again. She saw her elegant, slim figure cross through the doorway and her blond hair shimmer in the moonlight like ropes of silver. Her mother had been so exquisite to behold, but she disguised this well; the clansfolk only ever saw an old crone, with a bent back, covered from head to toe in a dirty and tattered cloak.
When her mother died Shoney vowed to honor her wishes. She took the cloak down from its peg and swept it over her shoulders and pulled the hood low over her head. With a bent back, she mimicked her mother’s walk, and so the witch lived on. The clan knew nothing of Shoney’s real existence, until now.
Shoney released a sigh as she turned her attention to a large, intricately carved wooden table, which dominated her small quarters. She began to empty her pockets of the herbs she gathered that day. She gazed upon the series of small glass bottles and leather pouches, littering the table’s surface. Each one possessed healing powers to safeguard one’s body or soul from harm. They were curative and soothing, but because they were made by her hand, the clan considered each one to be an act of witchcraft.
“So much waste,” she sighed.
Shoney was a gifted healer, and she knew she could bring relief to many who suffered, if only they welcomed her.
And then you wouldn’t be alone.
The words came unbidden to her mind, and she
chased them away with a shake of her head. She did not need anyone.
Her lips curled in a wry smile. Potion making was not her only talent. She inherited a special gift. Like her mother before her, and like all of the women of Shoney’s descent, she could see beyond what her eyes allowed. She had visions. A warning flash of white light preceded each one, and then Shoney gave herself to her dreams. Truths were revealed and fortunes told, but the visions came to her; she did not control them, which meant she could not see everything that had yet to be, or else she might have known to keep her head cloaked today when taking aim at the buck.
Shoney exhaled a slow breath as she glanced around her empty house. The silence at times seemed more deafening than the crashing surf at high tide. She knew no potions or chants to cure that which ailed her most—her unrelenting loneliness. She imagined Ronan for a moment in his home surrounded by a multitude of friends and family, laughter and warmth. Once again she was filled with rage. She felt consumed by it, and, acting on impulse, she rushed outside and cried out in the direction of the MacKinnon village of Gribun.
“My gods are born of this land,” she yelled as she stomped her foot on the brown earthen floor. Then she twirled in a circle with her arms raised high as if straining to touch the canopy of bright stars above her head.
“My gods are of the trees and sky and of the ocean that surrounds us all.”
Then she ceased her spinning and whispered, “I am of this land, Ronan, son of Nathair, future laird of the MacKinnon. You are not.”
Chapter 3
Ronan stared past the jagged cliffs toward the crisp, white swells of the sea and watched the waves roll inland, but nothing filled his mind for long before images of long golden hair stole his every thought.
“Hellfire,” he swore as he spurred his mount to ride faster over the wet, soft earth.
“Tell me again, Ronan, why I am not as this moment tending to the plant of the north fields as your father commanded?”
Ronan had forgotten his friend trailing reluctantly at the rear. He turned in his seat and gave Aidan a look of displeasure.
“You can’t blame me for thinking this is all a little…unbelievable,” Aidan said.
“So you think I’m lying. Is that it?” Ronan snapped.
“No, you are no liar, Ronan. But you are my oldest friend, and you will be laird one day, and so I hesitate using the word mad,” Aidan chuckled, irritating Ronan further.
They rode on in silence for which he was grateful. The purple bracken spread its springtime fingers over the sloping moors in thick beds of color, only to taper off as it met the hardness of the isle’s rocky coastline. He followed the violet color to the cliffs to see if she hid in one of the many caves the raging seas had carved out of the towering rock. He reached the bluffs and did not hesitate directing his horse down the steep slope. As he descended, a nagging feeling started to chip away at his resolve. His pursuit of the girl had already taken him on several fruitless missions.
Over the past fortnight, he combed the hills and forests of Northern Mull and found no trace of her, and when he exhausted all possibilities, he broadened his search. He traveled south to where MacKinnon lands abutted those of the MacLeans, a boundary marked by Benmore Mountain. The tall peak surged out of the earth and awarded anyone willing to climb to its top a magnificent view of the island. His feet followed a path up the steep height of the mountain to the windy summit where he scanned every direction, foolishly searching for long flaxen hair.
If she wasn’t in the caves, then he might have to admit defeat. There was simply no other place to look. He pictured her lovely form shivering and frigid, lying on a rock strewn cavern floor, her golden hair wet and tangled with seaweed. His grip tightened on the reins as concern for her safety mounted in his mind. But then his hand moved to his head where he felt the slight lump that remained from his fall in the woods, a
nd he decided she deserved to be little cold and wet. She had after all left him to bleed to death.
“Ronan, why are we here? What sort of girl would make her home in a cave? Even if she was down here, would you really want to be better acquainted with the strange cave girl?”
Ronan’s musings were interrupted by Aidan’s jest. Once again, he had forgotten his friend’s presence, but despite Aidan’s humor, Ronan witnessed a look of trepidation flitter across his face, which forced Ronan to admit to his own reckless behavior. He was pushing their horses as if heading into battle and steering them down treacherous ravines with little thought to the welfare of beast or man. Ronan pulled on the reins and brought his horse to a halt.
“I know you think that I am insane, but she is out there, somewhere, and I must find her.”
Aidan rolled his eyes and raised his face to the clear blue sky as if beseeching a heavenly body to intervene and save him. Then he sighed and once again addressed Ronan.
“It was a dream. You must listen to me. She does not exist.”
“And this crack on my head, I suppose you are going to claim that I dreamt this as well.”
“I know you fell. It was I who found you asleep like a babe, lying in a pool of blood and drool.”
He gave Aidan a look that would cause most men to doubt themselves, but Aidan didn’t flinch.
“I’m telling you, Ronan, it was a vision, nothing more.”
Ronan raised his reins to give them a snap, but Aidan gripped his forearm, stopping him. “You must listen to reason. You lost your footing and smashed your head against a rock, and in your sleep you conjured visions of beauty.” Aidan lips curled into a mischievous smile, “Or mayhap the fair folk took some pleasure at your expense.”
