by Carmen Caine
“I’m sorry if my words offended you, lass, but you must have known I would see through this new farce of yours.”
She gulped for breaths but managed to spit out, “Tharain was my ancestor not my mother and died long ago. My mother was Brethia, beautiful and brave. She wore the tattered cloak of her ancestors and made herself the crone, just as her mother did, as did all of our forebears. ‘Tis nothing more than a disguise.”
Madness. Her story was pure madness, but was she so in doubt of his sanity to think he would believe her tale?
“I am impressed with the ingenuity of your lies, but this is absurd,” he said. She carried on, not heeding his words.
“My mother concealed me, kept me hidden away to protect me from the cruelty of the clan. She carried on the tradition of the cloak to ensure every Gael remained afraid.” Tears of fury gathered in her eyes and began a slow course down her cheeks.
“She gave you what you wanted,” she shouted. “You wanted a witch. She gave you a witch.”
He had to concede she was a damn convincing liar. The tears and rage added a compelling force of indignant sincerity, but despite the absorbing performance and the beauty of the actress, he reached his limits. The one character flaw he abhorred most was deceitfulness.
“So to review, Tharain is dead, and I have never seen you before because your mother, who is the Witch of Dervaig, has kept you hidden all this time,” he said dryly.
“No,” she answered.
“No, your mother is not the Witch?”
“My mother is dead. She died three years ago. I am the Witch of Dervaig.”
“You are telling me for the past three years, you have lit the pit fires in the Witch’s hut, and your cloaked figure has been seen hunched over, shuffling across the moors?”
“Yes. Is there something the matter with your ears? I am the Witch of Dervaig.”
Ronan took her hand and began to lead her to the cave entrance. If she wanted to play this game, then he would oblige her. “Well then come along, my dear. I shall walk you home.”
***
In her gateless prison above the sea she dreamt of her return home, a trip she expected to make on her own, alone. The reality could not have been farther from the dream. She was not alone, a fact made even more real by the tightening of Ronan’s hand around her waist. She puzzled over his motivation for riding out to her home when he clearly did not believe her, which was another baffling point, because at least the truth was plausible. The clan believed the Witch of Dervaig had haunted the moors for centuries, and the price of her longevity—her soul. A fanciful legend blinded him to the truth. Perhaps, he was not as shrewd as she first thought, or his conviction of belief might be a testimony to her forbears’ mastery of concealment. They hid their offspring well and never, ever revealed their true identities.
“Except for love,” she murmured as she inhaled Ronan’s scent.
Love somehow found its way into the life of every Dervaig woman. Her mother’s heart was lost to love, but she refused to speak of Shoney’s father. Her gray eyes darkened with stormy sadness whenever Shoney mentioned the affair. Eventually, she stopped asking altogether to save her mother from the pain of remembering. His name, how they met, how long their affair lasted, she would never know. She used to believe love was the only force strong enough to remove the cloak. She imagined her mother crossing the moors obscured beneath the tattered darkness when suddenly her father appeared. Love permitted his eyes to penetrate the ugly folds of the cloak and see the beauty beneath, but now she knew her childhood daydream was just that—a dream.
Apparently, a prize buck was all that was required to unmask the Witch of Dervaig. Doubtless, it was some careless action that also revealed her mother’s true identity. If only she had stayed away from the woods on that fateful day, she would be at home, enjoying the safe predictability of faceless, traceless anonymity. Instead, she raced over the moors imprisoned in the steel embrace of a very skeptical and angry man, a man who knew her true name and lineage. She still could not believe it. Now, to the outside world, she really did exist.
Mother of all, what had she done?
On the one hand, she felt relieved. She wanted to run cloakless over the moors in broad day light, shouting her name and ancestry for all to hear. On the other hand, terrific fear consumed her, making her throat tight and her stomach churn. He would come to know the truth soon enough, and then the whole of the Clan MacKinnon would know there was no gruesome hag. Would they fear her still, or would they banish her from the island or worse? She felt the hairs on her neck stand straight up as a shiver coursed down her spin. They might burn her alive.
Ronan thankfully interrupted her thoughts as he brought his horse to a halt. She could just make out the shadowed outline of her hut against the night sky.
“There is the house of the Witch of Dervaig, an old crone who has lived for centuries. Anyone who dares trespass will be turned into rock and sunk beneath the heather, lost for all eternity.”
“Is that really what you believe?” Shoney could not help but chuckle.
“’Tis not too late to admit who you really are,” he said as he nudged his horse forward.
Clearly, he was expecting her to be overwhelmed with fear and beg him to turn his horse away. She said nothing as they continued on.
“All you have to do is tell me the truth, Bridget, and I will turn around,” he said.
She pinched herself to keep from laughing. His voice contained a nervous edge and his body stiffened, the tension increasing with every stride. He was scared.
“My name is Shoney,” she said softly. “I am descended of Eithne, the fierce Pictish warrior princess and you, Ronan, future laird of the Mackinnon, are afraid.”
She decided to add being called a coward to the list of things Ronan disliked, because he drove his heels into his horse’s flanks and raced the last distance to her house. Sliding off his mount, he pulled her down and motioned to the oversized doorway with the fanged snake carving.
“After you,” he said.
Shoney flashed him the sweetest smile she could muster then pushed the door open and walked inside. Straightaway, she knelt by the cool fire pit. When the flames burned brightly, its soft glow illuminating the inside of her quarters, she motioned to the figure standing in her doorway.
“You are welcome, Ronan. Please do not be afraid. You showed me great hospitality in your cave. I’d like to return the favor.” She pulled a chair close to the fire
and gave him an encouraging smile. “I promise you are safe here.”
He stood motionless in the doorway. “Enough of this, Bridget…er…Shoney…whatever your name is.” He took a step toward her with his arm outstretched. “If she catches us here, there is no telling what she will do. We must go. Now.”
She saw the panic in his eyes and took his hands in hers. “Hear me, Ronan,” she beseeched. “This is my home.” She smiled and pointed to the other side of the room. “I will prove it to you. Look inside the box beside my pallet. You will find a necklace made from small, white seashells.”
“Not another necklace, Bridget.”
She blushed remembering her earlier deceit. “I am sorry for lying to you before, but it was the only way to help your friend.”
“So you admit to knowing about Aidan’s attack.” Ronan was beginning to look ill.
“We’ll discuss that later. Just open it,” she urged, pointing to the small box.
At first, he hesitated. Then he stuck his head outside, looking left then right. When he was apparently satisfied the old hag of his childhood nightmares was not lurking just outside the door he turned, took a deep breath, and walked over to her pallet. Beads of sweat glistened across his brow. He bent down keeping one hand on the hilt of his sword as he slowly lifted the lid on the box. His head whipped around, and he stared at her in disbelief as he held out the necklace she described.
“You are the Witch of Dervaig,” he whispered.
Suddenly, a lo
g snapped in the fire pit, causing Ronan to jump. Then, to Shoney’s utter amazement, he turned and sprinted out the door.
She called after him, but his only acknowledgment of her appeal was to run faster. When she heard his horse galloping away, she knew he was gone. Leaning against the door frame, she gazed into the night and imagined that he reined in his mount and watched her beyond the shadows. The fire’s glow at her back would allow him to see her while he remained obscured by darkness. For the first time in her life, she could not bring herself to turn away from the night as she watched with hope for his return.
For days, she had wanted nothing else but to go home, and now that she had her wish, she felt suffocated. The walls of her hut used to mean comfort and safety. Now, she felt hemmed in. She traded one prison for another, but just like Ronan’s cave suspended in air, this cell needed no bars. Her legend was her warden. She was the Witch of Dervaig.
She pulled at the folds of the plaid in which Aidan had so deftly wrapped her. At least she would always have his colors by which to remember him.
“Mother of all, listen to yourself,” she said as she slammed the door with disgust.
She yearned for someone who by all accounts she should despise. She tried to convince herself it was not him she missed but companionship. Beyond the fleeting and hurried visits of distressed women seeking her aid, it had been three years since she spoke to anyone other than animals and trees. She had to admit it felt good. Then she remembered his strong arms around her waist, the scent of his skin, and the fire of his kiss branding her neck, and she conceded to having enjoyed more than just his conversation.
“Damn it,” she cursed. He was gone. He fled her side, and she would never see him again.
Chapter 8
Ronan looked to the sky, disbelief and confusion played a game of domination in his mind. Finally, shock won out. He had stood within the Witch’s hut, or was it Shoney’s hut? She said the Witch was a ruse, a trick, only Shoney in disguise.
Shoney: the most beautiful and bravest of creatures ever to be seen or malevolent servant of the Devil.
He groaned as his hands gripped his head in frustration. Surely, this was trickery. The old crone cast a spell to cover her wrinkles and warts with the freshness of youth and divinity’s beauty.
But her eyes.
He summoned her deep smoky eyes from memory. Could a spell conjure such innocence, such candor and passion?
Mounting his horse in a daze, he rode toward the village. He started out at a light clip, but then he sped up and raced home as if Satan licked at his heals.
In the morning, he awoke still plagued by questions. Had it all been a dream, or worse yet, witchcraft? Perhaps the Witch sought to seduce him and poison his mind in order to gain control of the clan. If that was the case, he certainly did not advance the cause of his people. With shame he remembered how he fled like a whelp facing battle for the first time. He growled, throwing off his blankets, and began pacing his rooms housed in the keep of Dun Ara Castle.
All morning the Witch and Shoney battled for existence in his mind. One moment, he was certain Shoney’s depth of character belied the possibility she was merely the product of artifice. The next, Shoney was erased by a lifetime of believing the Witch of Dervaig toiled for one purpose only, to cruelly use anyone naïve enough to fall into her trap. Whether a witch or an angel, there was only one way to find out—he was going back.
***
Ronan scanned the hills, ensuring no one was nearby to witness his western bearing. To further obscure his path he left Gribun without his horse to avoid making tracks. Knots twisted his stomach the closer he drew to the Witch’s hut, and he questioned whether he should have left some indication of his journey’s end just in case he was wrong about Shoney. But it was too late. He glimpsed the Witch’s hut looming in the distance.
Doubt clouded his mind, and he fought the urge to turn back. If he could lead his men into battle against barbarous Vikings, then he could face whatever awaited him behind the snake fangs of the wooden door. But as he passed beyond where his kin dared to tread, terror—rooted deep in his mind by a lifetime of belief—broke the surface of his control. Perhaps, she had lied, and when he reached his destination, it would not be fair Shoney who greeted him, but the hag who would no doubt unleash a fury of curses upon his trespassing hide.
“God’s bones,” he swore as perspiration dripped from his brow.
He was nervous.
Hell, he was terrified.
It was one thing to stand against a flesh and blood warrior who was every bit as mortal as he, but his sword was no match for sorcery. If he was wrong, and Shoney was nothing more than an illusion, then he was damned.
He stopped and took a deep breath. Shoney was not the stuff of dreams. She was a woman of flesh and blood. He forged ahead, keeping his eyes fastened on the ground. Stepping over one of the Dervaig Stones, he knew he was almost there. Then, as though in a dream, he stood at the large round door, sweat dripping from his brow as he searched for the courage to knock.
***
Shoney’s birthright was solitude, and it weighed on her young shoulders as never before. She fought to stand straight, to keep her spirit strong, but now that she had tasted another’s company it was even harder to reconcile herself to her fate. For a distraction, she put water to boil and tidied her already impeccably clean home. As she lifted the pot from the fire a knock at the door cut through the silence she was trying to ignore. Shoney jumped and the hot contents spilled over the rim, causing her to shriek as she pulled the wet plaid she still wore away from the sensitive skin of her thigh.
“Bridget…er…Shoney?”
It was Ronan. Her heart began to pound.
Again the knock sounded. Still holding the sodden wool off her skin, she started to lift the latch on the door when it occurred to her that he may not be alone. He could have rounded up an army ready to cleanse the Isle of Mull of the evil witch once and for all.
“Ronan, is it you?” she whispered.
“Were you expecting someone else, lass?” he said.
“Are you alone?”
“Aye, Shoney. You’ve naught to fear. I’m not leading a witch hunt.”
Without seeing his eyes she could not tell if he spoke the truth.
“Shoney, talk to me. I cannot read your mind. I might remind you that between the two of us, I am not the one suspected of having the powers of magic.”
He teased her to make light of the moment, but he was holding something back. She could hear it in his voice.
“Shoney, I need to speak to you. Please let me in. Standing alone outside this place, staring into the eyes of your serpent is testing my courage like never before.”
Fear tainted his voice not deceit. She slowly opened the door and peered out. His height and breadth of shoulder blocked out the sun as she gazed into his nervous eyes. She took a deep breath and opened the door all the way. He accepted her invitation to enter but refused to sit in the chair by the fire.
“I am warm enough, thank you,” he said.
He surveyed her small quarters. She followed his gaze about the room suddenly very self-conscious. She had never seen inside the homes in the village and did not know how they compared. She was glad for the dried lavender on the ground. The flowers’ soft perfume filled the air. He paused in front of her great wooden table. He seemed to be considering the contents of the pouches and her various tools.
“You are a healer?” His voice betrayed his trepidation.
Walking over to where he stood, she pretended to busy herself with crushing some herbs and replied, “Aye, I am a healer not a witch, Ronan.”
He tensed next to her.
“Nor was my mother,” she continued. “I do believe in the strength of the gods of the earth and the heavens, but my skills are for healing. Sadly, few benefit from my knowledge.”
“Few?” his face showed his surprise. “Do you mean to say people have sought your skills?”
“D
on’t look so shocked, Ronan. Women from your own clan have been visiting this hut since before the days of Tharain.”
“MacKinnon women have come here? Why?” he asked. She ignored the fact that he seemed appalled by the notion.
“MacKinnon and MacLean women visit in the night,” she replied. “They come when they cannot find help elsewhere.”
Ronan lifted a clay pot containing a pungent mix of seaweed and nettle. Shoney watched his face crinkle with distaste as the pot was returned to the table.
“That can’t be true. The MacKinnon clan cares for its own women. We too have healers.”
“No doubt, but my mother told me your religion teaches you to fear women, and so you silence them.”
“’Tis not our religion that creates fear, Bridget…”
“Shoney,” she interrupted. “My name is Shoney.” He looked as though he did not like being reminded.
“’Tis not our religion that creates fear, Shoney.” He began again. She smiled, enjoying her name on his lips. “Men are born of sin,” he continued. “We must fear our own wickedness and repent.”
“And what of women?” she asked, turning her back to him.
She moved to stand by the fire. When he did not reply she sought his gaze. His eyes glowed with amber intensity as they bore into hers, searing a path straight to her soul. Her gaze faltered as she looked at her feet.
“We love our women, Shoney,” he said in a low voice. “We protect and cherish our women.”
When she again met his gaze, she stopped breathing altogether, startled by the desire she saw in their depths. Deep warmth spread across her face.
What magic was this? Why did he have this hold over her?
He was the enemy, the descendent of King MacAlpin. She despised him and blamed him for her loneliness. Why should he not suffer the consequences for his ancestor’s choices just as she must? She should be fighting him not desiring him.
