Celtic Spirit (Celtic Storm Series Book 4)

by Ria Cantrell

  He craved human interaction. He knew that was his punishment for all he had done against his fellow man in life, but how he wished for the touch of another or, better yet, simple conversation. Dear God, how he wished he could talk to someone. He talked at people, but they never heard him. He had gotten so used to not being heard, that he often said things out loud, no longer caring that he didn’t filter his words. He laughed to himself as he thought about his very colorful expletives that he peppered his solitary conversations with. When he laughed, he wondered if he really was not sane at all. Still, he oddly sensed he had presence of wit and although he could not get validation of such, he thought the Ancients would not wish him to be insane. No, insanity would lessen the schooling of his heart, he was certain.

  He was sure if the Ancients heard him hurl profanities with his solitary monologues, they would be none too pleased with his dirty diatribes. Only, it seemed the Ancients had long since forgotten about him. They had promised him a chance at redemption, only to leave him to flounder between the physical and spiritual realm. He didn’t like to think that by now what had remained of his family had long since passed.

  He could not bring himself to think of all those others dead and gone. He never saw the spirits of any of his own kin from his own time, which was why he was not entirely certain he was a true one himself. He sighed. Today, he felt particularly sad and alone. He found himself wandering the grounds of the Keep and he found his favorite place of sanctuary. It was part of the Keep that had never been restored. It was a tower ruin, but it was all that had remained intact from his time. When he was in the tower ruin, he was able to rest. He was able to breathe. It was where he did not feel like a specter, but it was where he felt like a man.

  Pushing the briars away from the hidden oak door that for some reason had not rotted away, but remained whole, Derek yanked the handle until the old door groaned open. Today, a thorn had dug into his palm as it had so many times before; more times than he could even remember, but today, drops of blood dripped onto the handle. Blood? Derek looked at the ruby droplets forming in his palm and he waited for them to disappear, sure that was what had always happened before. Today, the blood did not disappear, but continued to seep from the scratch on his hand. Raising his hand to his lips, he instinctively sucked the blood from his palm. He could taste the metallic tang of it on his lips. It was so potent a flavor from being denied that human sense, that even though it was his own blood, Derek relished the gift of having been able to taste it.

  As the scratch seemed to ebb naturally, Derek wondered what else he could taste if he tried. He stooped down and gathered a handful of soil. He wasn’t tempted to eat the soil, but he brought the small clod of earth to his nostrils and took a deep smell of it. Yes, he could smell the earth. He had forgotten what it was like to be able to smell scents in this altered state. What the hell was happening? He wanted to run back to the keep and steal some food to see if he could taste it, too.

  Derek hastily climbed up the spiral steps of the tower ruin and made it to the top tower room, which had become his place to keep a cache of things from his past as well as from things from times forward. He had amassed quite a collection, including a pallet for sleeping and pieces of furniture from various times. He never had taken food items because he had learned early on that he could no longer smell or taste food. It seemed he didn’t need food to sustain him, so he just chose not to torture himself further, nor did he relish moldering food that could not be consumed. He searched the cache of his treasures for anything that he could smell or taste. He found not even a dram of scotch to put to his tongue.

  He opened a small chest and he dug through it. Sifting through some fabrics and trinkets, he came upon a small decorative vial with a cork stopper. He could not imagine that it hadn’t deteriorated by now, but he gave it little thought. He was on a mission and he had to find out. Opening the stopper carefully to avoid crumbling it in his big hands, Derek put the vial under his nose. The delicate fragrance of sandal and lilac wafted into his nasal passage and he remembered the scent of the only woman he had ever loved in his life…his own mother. She had died when he was quite young and his father had married Arianne shortly thereafter, but Derek had hidden away his mother’s perfume all this time. Yes! He could smell it! He sank to his knees and took deep whiffs of the scent for many minutes until he felt almost lightheaded. Capping the little vial back, he placed it carefully back into the treasured hiding spot. He had not ever fancied himself a sentimental man, but he supposed he had been a more tender youth that had become the hardened man over time.

  He pondered this new revelation. His senses were returning. Did that mean that the Ancients were ready to relinquish his punishment? How long had it even been? He knew he was not certain. Filled with a sense of excitement, Derek made his way hastily from the tower ruin and hurried back to the main Keep. He passed people, but they still made no notice of him. He found his way into the kitchens. He had not frequented that part of the keep much since he had no need for food. There were strange implements for cooking and large metal type furnaces to aid in food preparation but he knew not how they worked or where the fires were contained within them to heat them. He carefully pulled on the handle of one such furnace and a door dropped forward. He peered inside and there seemed to be bread baking inside it. It was nearly done, but he could not wait. He grabbed the loaf from the oven and though it was hot enough for him to feel the pain; as he could always still feel pain, he ignored it. He tore off a piece of the bread and stuffed it into his mouth hoping to experience the wonderful taste of the perfectly formed loaf. Instead, the yeasty dough held no flavor.

  Derek spit the tasteless mass out of his mouth and thought to throw the bread to the floor, but instead he tucked it into his leine and wandered back out to the tower ruin sadly. It had only been to tease him. Was his punishment never going to cease?

  Standing in front of the doorway to the tower, Derek called out in anguish, “How long will ye’ torment me? When will I be released from this earthly prison?”

  Banging his fist repeatedly against the solid wood of the door in anger and frustration, Derek cried out until his knuckles bled. Cradling his hand into his other one, Derek suddenly felt drained. This time when he made it up to the tower room, he felt heaviness in his legs. He was tired. He was tired of a life that held no substance or no flavor. He was tired of the loneliness. He was ready for it all to end. When it seemed he could no longer move his body, he sank against the pallet he had created and the weight of his despair washed over him, seemingly sucking at him as a man drowning. He succumbed, then, to a sleep so deeply, he might have thought his spirit had finally died and as he sank into the depths of oblivion he decided, he no longer cared. He had had enough. It was time.

  Chapter 9

  Kiera felt refreshed from her nap on the train and she was excited to reach her destination. The bed and breakfast reservation had included a ride from the train to the inn. She was met at the station by a kind looking man, who was on in years, but seemed to possess a strength that was out of sorts for a man of his age. He almost reminded Kiera of her beloved grandfather, who she had not seen since she was a child, and even then, she had seen the image of him after he had passed. She rationalized that because he was of the same heritage as her grandfather, she was projecting her memories to him. Still, there was something about him that seemed to tug at her. It was as if he should have been more than a cabdriver offering rides to hapless guests.

  During the pleasant cab ride to the bed and breakfast outside of Colgin, Kiera’s heart was set with lightness. She suddenly felt as if she could really and truly breathe. She watched outside the window, just soaking up every blade of grass and wildflower that passed before her. Once in a while, she would look up and see the eyes of the driver in the mirror quietly observing her. It didn’t make her feel uneasy, because she guessed that brazen American women were a rarity in these parts.

  After a ride that seemed too short, they re
ached the destination of the quaint inn on the outskirts of Kilchrenan. As the old driver helped her take her bags into the bed and breakfast, they were met with a weathered old woman, whose face beamed a welcome to her new guest. Extending a papery hand toward Kiera, she said, “Ah, greetings, Lass. Ye’ have made it finally.”

  Kiera took the old woman’s hand and though she seemed ancient, her grip was strong. The old woman’s grey eyes beheld a light in them, causing them to sparkle brightly. There was no telling how old she was, but the life in her eyes told Kiera she was far from giving in to her age just yet. Something about what the woman said pulled at a memory in Kiera’s mind, but as soon as she thought it, it seemed to have vanished mysteriously. She must have just meant she had finally arrived at the inn.

  “Hello, Ma’am. I am Kiera Callum.”

  Smiling, the old woman said, “I know who ye’ are.”

  Then seeing the perplexed look on the young woman’s face, she said, “Ye’ booked the reservation, dearie. I dunna’ have many guests this weekend and I knew what time ye’ said ye’ were plannin’ on arrivin’. I was the one who arranged to have you met at the train station.”

  Then turning to the man who had picked her up, the old inn keeper said, “Duncan, would ye’ be so kind to help an old woman out and carry Miss Callum’s bags fer’ me?”

  The cabbie doffed his cap and smiled warmly, but Kiera protested, “Oh, no, no, that won’t be necessary.”

  “Lass, t’is no trouble,” Duncan replied. Kiera once again noticed he had been looking at her curiously and when he saw she had been aware of the way he stared at her, he cleared his throat and said, “Forgive me, Miss. Ye’ have the look of the Highlands about you, t’is all. I did not mean to stare at ye’. I do hope ye’ enjoy yer’ stay.”

  The man gave a bow and took his leave. The old woman eyed the younger woman before her. Wistfully she said, “Callum…I take it ye’ have Scots in ye’. We dunna’ actually have Callums here, but that name is not unlike a name very near and dear to my own heart.”

  “I think I read that it is from the name MacCallum but I may be wrong about that.”

  “Aye. Then did ye’ plan this trip to seek your heritage? For this is MacCallum country. We are also known as MacCollum here or even Malcolm.”

  “Really? I had no idea. I did not plan it as such, just sort of picked a place that looked like…well…never mind. It is silly really.”

  “Not at all, girl. Go on. What did this place look like to ye’? What brought ye’ here to us?”

  Kiera smiled tentatively. She knew that saying it out loud could make her seem a little nuts but she said, “Well, lately, and I don’t know why, I have been dreaming of Scotland. I have seen a place like this so vividly in my dreams. Since I had been dreaming about it, I looked up places that seemed to resemble those places in my mind. It was why I thought to come for a visit. Silly, isn’t it?”

  “There is nothing silly about it. I have long believed that the forces at work are bigger than we can ever know. I am Mora…Moira. Yes, I am Moira MacCollum.”

  “Really?”

  Kiera stared incredulously at the woman. “Could we be distantly related?”

  “Quite possibly. You look like the image of a girl, in one of the old paintings made of a granddaughter to one of the great High Chiefs that lived many centuries ago. Perhaps yer’ blood line is of her lineage.”

  Seeing the twinkle in the younger woman’s eyes, Moira added, “Girl, I dunna’ believe in coincidences. Something brought ye’ all this way. All the more, I am happy ye’ have decided to visit here now.”

  Kiera felt a chill course through her at the woman’s words, but it was not out of fear, but out of something bigger than all of them. It gave her a bit of a thrill that she did not want to readily admit. She said, “Perhaps you can tell me about her and I can research her ties to my own family. That sounds absolutely fascinating.”

  Kiera refrained from asking if there were any beefy beautiful highland men locked in towers because even though her dreams had pulled her to this place, even that thought sounded silly in her own head; too silly to speak it.

  Moira smiled and said, “Ach, I will be happy to tell ye’ about her. I love playing at historian from time to time. Come, Lassie, let me show ye’ to yer’ room.”

  Following the woman to a comfortable cottage that was located as an outbuilding of the main inn, Kiera suddenly could not wait to explore the place. Her lodgings were absolutely quaint and perfect. She hoped Moira would tell her where to find that painting because she was just dying to see it. She wondered about Moira’s comment about not believing in coincidences. Did she feel it was some sort of divine intervention that brought her to this place? Kiera felt a sense of anticipation that she could not explain. It was as if destiny was waiting and her future was at hand. She thought that this place was so steeped in history, that it would have to be infused with the energy of the past and in that past, she would find a great treasure. Well, she would unpack her things and then go to explore.

  *****

  Duncan watched as the new guest was shown to her cottage behind the main inn. He waited for Moira to return and hoped that she would be alone. He needed to talk to her. It would seem that she had finally arrived. He hoped that The Fates had stepped in at last and that it was not the meddling of the old woman. Meddling was not permitted and the old woman was known to stick her nose where it did not always belong.

  There was no missing who she was. She was a MacCollum as sure as can be said. When he spied Moira approaching in her slow but steady way, he hailed her. He could see the small smile lifting her lips as she came closer and the sparkle that lit her eyes. If he didn’t know better, he would be sure she was up to her old tricks; of that he was certain.

  “Woman, what are you up to?”

  Feigning innocence, she replied, “I dunna’ know what ye’ mean.”

  “Don’t ye’? The lass…she’s a MacCollum. It canna’ be denied. She is the image of Jenna Brandham, granddaughter of the great High Chief.”

  “So what, Old man! People can look like other people. It is a big world out there.”

  “My point exactly. How is it that she ended up here? Did ye’ summon her?”

  “I did no such thing. It is time, Duncan. He has suffered enough.”

  Duncan still could not get used to the name, even after all this time. His back stiffened at hearing it just the same. He also did not like the way she addressed him. He had been a laird, dammit and he deserved to be respected. Not to mention that he had been elevated as a Guardian.

  “Listen, Morag, ye’ know the rules. We are not to force Fate’s hand.”

  “Hush, Old man. Do ye’ want people to hear?”

  Shrugging, he said, “There is naught around. Answer me.”

  Planting her hands on her bony hips, Morag eyed the man she knew as Gavin Campbell in a time so very long ago. Though he was tall and imposing, she was undaunted. She met his piercing gaze and said, “I did no such thing. I have felt her time was coming and so it was no surprise when she showed up here. Gavin, he has suffered a long time. When I begged for his soul, even I dinna’ know how long it would take for his punishment to end. He has given up, Gavin. He no longer cares. The other Guardians must have seen it too and thought to end it once and for all. She is here through the hand of Destiny, not by any conjuring of mine.”

  Gavin did not look appeased, but he said flatly, “Alright, but mark me, woman. If I learn it is by your doing, all will be lost.”

  “Gavin Campbell, he is your grandson. How long will ye’ hold onto yer’ anger with him?”

  A sad look passed over the old man’s eyes and he sighed, “As a Guardian, I must but as a man it is hard to. I had such hopes for him. His brother…well he never would have been a good leader of the Clan, but Derek had strength and he could have brought unity to the Campbells. Instead, the path he chose sealed the fate of the Clan and forever sullied its good name.”

  “That
was a long time ago, Gavin. The name Campbell lives on now and history had a way of painting a different picture. Why, look at all that you can find about Campbell. There is less about MacCollum than Campbell, despite what really happened all those years ago. Leave it to the past, Gavin. Set him free.”

  The old man’s shoulders slumped visibly. The woman was right. It was time to offer the redemption to his grandson that had been promised so very long ago.

  “Alright. Agreed, it is time. But we canna’ force their hands. They have to find it on their own. They have to unlock the secrets and dispel Arianne’s curse on their own.”

  Morag frowned, the wrinkles in her ancient face deepening, causing her wizened appearance to show her ancient age. She always enjoyed helping folks see the truth when they had been too dull to realize it for themselves. Gripping her thin arm gently, Gavin said, “What says ye’? Do I have yer’ word?”

  “Unhand me, Old Man. Ye’ don’t need to break my arm.”

  Rolling his eyes, Gavin said, “I did no such thing. Give me your word or I canna’ promise Arianne’s curse will not be broken.”