by Carmen Caine
It was at the edge of the cliffs that she felt her strength return. The rich salty sea air assailed her nostrils, awakening her senses. The sharp winds rolling off the sea blasted her core with exhilaration, and her heart matched the pounding beat of the surf against the cliff side. She could not say why or how, but a peace settled over her then. Reaching her hands to the sky, she spun, laughing for the first time in days and days. The answers she sought were near. If she remained mindful and patient, she would find them. Smiling she turned from the sea and entered her home.
Her eyes welled with tears as she gazed about her quiet quarters. She could feel her mother’s presence in the room. Warm memories floated around her, soothing the last of her fear away. She wrapped her arms around her belly, and for the first time, she spoke to her child, telling her that she was loved and welcome.
Everything was just as she left it, except for the dust. With gladness, Shoney went to work, opening the door and window to invite in fresh air and checking buckets outside for rainwater to use for washing. She started with her table, cleaning each earthen bowl and tool. She thought of how useful many of the salves and herbs would be to the village if she decided to return.
Would she return?
Could she really abandon her new home and her beloved friends? Life without them seemed hard to imagine, but she shook her head and let her fear drift away. Somehow she would know what to do. Next, she decided to gather her tunics and kirtles to shake outside. She pulled her clothing from their pegs, including her cloaks, but her hand froze when she reached for what hung on the final peg—the cloak of the Witch of Dervaig.
She dropped the bundle of clothing on the ground, and stared at the cloak. Taking a deep breath, she reached a hesitant hand and warily pulled it off the peg. Overcome by the cloak’s two opposing powers, her hands shook as she held it. The cloak was her greatest protection. By instilling fear into the minds of the villagers, it allowed her to move unharassed over the isle. It represented anonymity and freedom, but that was not all. The dark, tattered fabric was also a prison. It shackled her to life as an outcast and a life without Ronan.
The cloak seemed to sneer at her, mocking her new found resolve. She moved to the center of the room and fanned the fabric out, resting it on her shoulders. Pulling the hood down low over her brow, she hunched her back and limped across the floor. Her friends would scatter with terror if she hobbled into the village, but what would they do if she suddenly stood straight and
flung the cloak from her shoulders? It was too terrifying to consider.
“I knew I would find you here,” said a voice.
Shoney whirled around, astonished to see Ronan’s mother standing in the doorway, but Anwen did not seem in the least surprised to find her in the Witch’s hut, wearing the Witch’s cloak.
“How did you know?” Shoney uttered.
“Morna came to me in a panic, saying you were ill and missing. She is afraid you’ve come down with a fever and wandered off in your delirium,” Anwen chuckled. “She has the whole clan searching for you. When I could, I slipped away.”
Anwen reached toward Shoney and gently slid the hood back and swept the cloak from her shoulders.
“You see, Bridget, I knew just where to find you. From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I have known who you are,” she smiled.
“And you are not afraid,” Shoney whispered.
“Of you?” Anwen laughed. “My dear, who could ever be afraid of you?”
“Many people, otherwise you would not have come in secret.”
“Perhaps,” Anwen replied as she walked around the hut.
“How did you know?”
Anwen took hold of Shoney’s hands and smiled warmly, “Let us sit together by the fire, and I will tell you a story.”
Shoney sat across from Ronan’s mother. Her hands were tight fists of anticipation as she waited for the elder woman’s tale to begin.
“Many years ago now, when I was a young girl of six years, I wandered away from the village and into the woods. It was not long before I realized I was lost. Not knowing which direction to take, I sat on a fallen log and began to cry. It was then I heard a sweet little voice. I lifted my head and wiped my eyes and saw the prettiest little girl, the likes of which I thought only lived in dreams. She, no older than I, knelt before me and took my hands and told me not to cry. She was going to save me. Her hair shone like spun gold, and her eyes were as grey as storm swept seas.”
“It was my mother,” Shoney said knowingly.
“You have the look of your mother. I believed that one of the fair folk had come to rescue me. She gave me berries to eat, and then we ran and played together for hours.” Anwen closed her eyes. “I can still see her running ahead of me. Her golden hair bouncing and her strange eyes smiling as she looked back.” Then she again met Shoney’s gaze. “I always knew somehow when she was waiting for me. I’d make my way to the fallen log and there she would be.”
The fire began to smoke. Shoney added another cut of peat to the flames as Anwen continued her story.
“For three summers we met, and then at the start of my tenth summer, I went to our spot, and it was empty, but I was not surprised. And, I will tell you this, Shoney—I knew, somehow, that she was not going to be waiting for me. More than that, I knew she would never wait for me again. My faery would never return.”
“And?” Shoney urged.
“I told you. I never saw her again.”
“Well, how did you know who she really was—that her mother was the Witch? Did she tell you?” Shoney asked.
“One day, I bade her show me where she lived. She led me along the coastal route here to her hut, but we hid outside. She told me her mother would be angry if she knew we were friends.”
“And you were not afraid?” Shoney asked.
“Never—not even a little. I adored Brethia. She was a big sister to me even though we were the same age. I felt safe with her as though she would always protect me.”
“Why do you think she stopped meeting you in the wood?”
Anwen smiled and put her hand on Shoney’s knee. “We grew up, Bridget.”
“You know,” Shoney smiled shyly, “Bridget is not my real name.”
“I thought not,” she chuckled. “Well, out with it. Who are you then?”
“Shoney.”
“Ah, she named you after the god of good fishing. I’m not surprised as your mother loved to fish and often prayed to Shoney. Yes, that does suit you much more.”
Anwen leaned close and said, “When we are alone together you shall always be Shoney to me.”
Shoney turned away. She knew Anwen meant well, but she felt betrayed nonetheless. Would she ever know acceptance?
“I’m sorry, Shoney. I have injured you, but you must understand that we are all of us part of the same world, and this world is not always just. If it were otherwise, the men we love would not be out there right now fighting and risking all for our safety.”
“You must think my concern for my name frivolous,” Shoney began, “but I grieve for much more than that when I answer to the name Bridget.”
Shoney looked beseechingly to Anwen for support. Surely, she, her mother’s companion in youth, would understand.
“Aye, you feel as though you’ve brought shame to your mother. She gave you a strong name, and she taught you the ways of your people, ways which you reject by coming to the village.”
“Precisely,” Shoney began, but Anwen interrupted.
“Here me out, Shoney,” she implored. “A mother’s greatest desire for her child is life—to live. There are many villains that would slay a child and many ways for a heart to die. There is of course life stolen by war, disease, or accident, like my first son, Nachlan. But there is also death which comes when all joy is lost. In this case, the body may still breathe and move, but the heart is broken beyond repair. If you remain here, alone, under the darkness of your cloak, your heart will die. I know this, Shoney. I have watched you grow i
n joy since your arrival even though I know you have often been unhappy, but there is a difference. Joy is what sustains even when despair sets in.”
“I have found great joy, first Ronan and then the people of Gribun, you and Morna and Una. You all have come to mean so much to me. I feel loved and necessary, two things impossible to find in solitude, but…,” she trailed off, not wishing to acknowledge her fear.
“But what, Shoney?” Anwen implored.
“I am a fraud.”
“But that is not true. Your affection is genuine, and your help very real. Deception is often necessary in life. Do not fool yourself into thinking truth is always the noblest pathway; sometimes it destroys more than it creates. Think of all the good you have done, all that you have made that would be undone.” Anwen smiled slyly. “Think of the baby growing inside you.”
Shoney inhaled sharply, once again surprised by Anwen’s awareness.
“I have watched you closer than you think. My son loves you. He made that quite clear to everyone before he left.” Her penetrating eyes bore into Shoney’s as she searched for the truth.
“Your silence confirms my suspicion,” she said.
“Aye, Ronan’s child does grow inside me.”
Anwen smiled and pulled her into a warm embrace.
“No, Please don’t,” Shoney pushed her away. “I have not decided where my future lies. Becoming Bridget is to surrender.”
Shoney stood up and walked to the doorway and pointed to the sacred stones. “All of the women who have come before me have worshiped at those stones. At some point, each woman would have been forced to decide—stay and be true to themselves, refusing your law and your religion, or leave, seeking out a new life. My mother refused to surrender. Now I am faced with that choice. If I leave, then I lay waste to all that my mother endured.”
“But where does it end, Shoney? Is your child to be raised in isolation, one day being left alone, faced with this impossible choice?”
Shoney’s mind was reeling. Anwen was right. Now that she was with child, it was not only her future she must consider. Her daughter, like Shoney, would find herself alone one day, faced with the same desolate isolation, assuming she had a daughter. What if she birthed a son? What kind of life would he know?
“Shoney, regardless of where you live and by what name you take,” Anwen began, “my delight is unwavering. You carry my grandchild and nothing can change that. But I have one question.”
“If I have an answer, it will be yours,” Shoney replied.
“Have you made any promises to Ronan?”
She blushed crimson with embarrassment and anger when she remembered their last night together. “Only to remain in the village until his return,” she said.
“Then on his behalf, I ask you honor this promise and return with me now.”
But what if he doesn’t return, her heart screamed.
She was dizzy and about to be sick again.
“Shoney, rest for a minute. ‘Tis the baby. I suffered terrible sickness too.” Shoney did as Anwen suggested, and soon the waves of nausea passed, and she was ready to leave.
“Before we go, Anwen, I must speak.” Shoney took a deep breath. “I love him. I do. This I will not deny, but despite what you may believe deception can twist even that which is most pure. Our life together is based on a pretense. If ever the truth were revealed, the consequences might be unthinkable.”
“No more unthinkable than if you denied Ronan your love or your child the love of his father, but let us not argue.” She took Shoney by the hand. “These things have a way of working themselves out, you’ll see.” Shoney doubted that very much, but honored Anwen’s wishes not to argue.
They left the front door together arm in arm. Despite the tangle of questions threatening to trip her every move, she felt unburdened. She hoped knowing that someone else in Gribun was aware of her true identity would strengthened her sense of self, reinforcing the boundaries between myth and reality—Bridget and Shoney.
She stopped to once more honor her mother at the Dervaig Stones.
“If you permit me, Shoney, I would speak.”
“Of course,” she replied.
“Your mother was no different than any other mother.”
“What do you mean,” Shoney asked.
“More than anything,” Anwen said as they walked side by side, “your mother would want you to live.”
Chapter 25
Ronan was incapable of drawing breath. Dazed, he stared at the grisly chaos below, which suddenly seemed very far away. The sun streamed over him as Shoney’s voice echoed in his ears:
The enemy’s ascension will come from all sides, their blades gleaming in the sunlight. You fight with valor, but you will be overrun, and they will cut you down.
The enemy was climbing toward him with their swords raised at the ready and bloodlust in their eyes, but Ronan’s numb arms hung useless at his side. His gaze skimmed over the wasting bodies of the dead on the ground below. He wondered if they were not better off. Then his eyes met Guthrie’s unseeing gaze, his lifeless body steeped in the spoiled earth. A blade had laid open his gut, spilling his entrails in a bloody heap where a seagull feasted, sounding its triumphant caw into the air. Around his fallen friend were countless slain Norsemen. He had struck down many of the enemy before he met his end.
Guthrie’s cold stare ignited an eruption of fury that coursed through Ronan’s body, reviving his senseless limbs. His hand reached behind his back, unsheathing his blade. He raised his sword high and bent his thighs low, readying his stance for the first mighty swing of his blade. Neither a vision nor God himself controlled his fate. The enemy approached, but he would not wait for their arrival. He raised his head to the sky and bellowed to the heavens. Rushing his attackers, he wielded his blade without mercy. He thrust down, cutting the first who crossed his path from neck to navel. Then he whirled around, slicing the head off the next. Blood splattered his face and the taste of it gathered in his mouth, but it was not his. His destiny was his own, and he was not going to die on those rocks. He growled as the men crumbled at his feet. At the foot of the rocks, the remaining Norse fighters hesitated. He could taste their fear.
“Raise up your swords and fight me,” he yelled. He bared his teeth, urging them to meet his blade, but they fled. “Cowards,” Ronan called after them.
He started to descend, bloodlust urging him to give chase, but he froze; his gaze was drawn to a distance figure. A burst of sunlight streamed through the clouds and fell on the shoulders of a lone Scotsman, battling Norse warriors atop another tall cluster of rocks.
“No,” Ronan screamed.
His father stood perched on the jagged precipice. His sword reflected a gleam of blinding light as he swung at the encroaching enemy. The MacKinnon’s back was to him. He fought valiantly, his broad shoulders, so like Ronan’s, deftly swinging his blade. His brown hair shown like amber beneath the sun’s rays, and again Shoney’s words raced through his mind:
Then the clouds will break, and the sun will stream down upon your back and ignite your hair like amber flames as you stand on a great precipice.
She never saw his face.
Shoney had not prophesied his own death, but rather the death of his father. Without hesitation, he leapt from the rocks, his fall cushioned by the bodies of the slain. Aidan was just ahead. Ronan called to him as he ran toward his father.
“Aidan,” he shouted, pointing to Nathair. “The MacKinnon.”
Aidan did not falter as he pushed through throngs of warriors, slaying the Norse along the way. Aidan would reach his father first, and Ronan could only hope it would be soon enough. His heart hammered in his chest as he tore across the ruined land. The MacKinnon was still standing. His blade struck with swift speed, cutting down the enemy with every swing, but they did not relent. Norse fighters came at him from all sides. Still, Nathair battled on. Ronan sprinted forward, keeping his father always in his sights. He had to reach him in time. He was almost ther
e. Nathair turned. His drawn lips and wilted shoulders bespoke of crippling exhaustion. Nathair’s strength was sapped; the fight was all but over. His looked up and met Ronan’s gaze.
“Father,” Ronan cried. He was almost there.
His father growled, raising his sword, his eyes never leaving Ronan’s. But then his mouth contorted as the tip of a blade pierced through his stomach from behind.
“No,” Ronan screamed.
Nathair fell as another sword cut into his flesh. Ronan reached the rocks and released a thunderous roar. A Viking was ascending just ahead of him. With his dirk, Ronan carved into the enemy’s calf. Then he dragged the blade down, snapping bone and tearing flesh. The Norse fighter rolled off the rocks screaming to the ground as Ronan bounded to the top where he found Aidan and Dugald defending their fallen laird and fighting with a fury to match his own. He knelt at his father’s side. He was still breathing, but with a heavy heart Ronan judged his wounds to be fatal.
He eased his hand beneath Nathair’s back, cradling his head onto his lap. “Father,” he said. Nathair’s lids fluttered at the sound and slowly lifted.
“My son,” he gasped.
“Aye, Father, I am here.”
“Ronan,” Nathair croaked. “I must tell…,” but the MacKinnon’s words drifted off as he lay wheezing and fighting to suck air into his failing body.
“Father, please, do not try to speak. You must rest.”
“Nay,” Nathair cried, “you must listen. Ronan, I lied to you.” He stopped as he struggled once again for breath.
“Father, it does not matter now.”
“Listen to me, boy,” Nathair whispered. Ronan lowered his head so that his ear was to his father’s lips. Each word came slower and softer than the last.
“My body is cold with death, but my heart is warm with thoughts of your mother. Hers is the only face I’ve seen since this bloody mess started. I was surrounded and forced onto these rocks, and I knew then that I would die. I searched my soul and found but one regret. I lied to you and the lass, but I would make this right before I’m gone.”
