Highland Awakening

by Kathryn Lynn Davis

  ~ * ~

  Later, after she had walked all day among the piles of snow and the grass and flowers trying to break free of winter’s grasp, while carrying on a nonstop conversation with the woodland animals and The Voice to keep herself amused—and to inform whoever might be interested why she was there. She realized she’d begun to ache all over, and it was time to start looking for a place to stop for the night.

  She had already run across several men on various errands in the forest, and she was glad to be dressed as a boy, which kept her out of certain kinds of danger. She passed a rickety Inn that and decided against it as soon as she poked her head in and took a whiff. It smelled of urine and unwashed bodies and smoke and ale. Not her favorite fragrances.

  She decided to keep looking. Taking out the medallion, she saw it was glowing; she followed that glow to a clean little croft where the dwellers were willing to let a traveler stay. She wanted to save by eating her own food, but the woman had burned her hand while cooking a thick brose on the fire in the middle of the room. Esmé offered to help.

  She gave the woman some chamomile tea to calm her, then gently applied garlic balm on the burn itself to both soothe the pain and keep it from becoming infected.

  Amazed by the results, the old man and his son and especially the woman, asked her to share their meal. She could not refuse without being rude, and besides, she was starving. So they all sat down to beef brose and flat bread. Watching the firelight dance across the three faces of the strangers, Esmé felt as if she knew them somehow.

  She slept dreamlessly on a plain straw pallet and arose feeling rested and revived. She changed the dressing on the woman’s wrist, making sure she left behind some chamomile and garlic balm. In return, they gave her crowdie and fresh bannocks.

  All three stood in the doorway watching her go, smiling, glad she had come. It was a strangely pleasant feeling. It made her feel stronger somehow—or was it only less afraid?

  She had gone no more than half a mile when she realized she had no idea what direction she should take. She stopped still, confused, and the aches returned to her body. Odd, she said to herself, I’d not even noticed they were gone. But what do I do now? She spun in circles, desperation rising, hopelessly disorienting herself, until she was exhausted. Listen to your instincts. Silence your thoughts.

  The words were so clear she was sure someone had spoken them out loud right beside her. She stopped, suspended in the suddenly falling mist, and touched the medallion. It glowed in only one direction. Concentrating on that area, where pine trees clustered at the edge of a forest, Esmé noticed an unusual thing—an old crone in a dark cloak, disappearing into the woods.

  Without knowledge or intention, Esmé turned to follow her.

  Chapter Ten

  Magnus was grateful for the new morning; he liked the scent of the pine and spruce woods, and chopped wood for his fire with great satisfaction.

  “Magnus, ye are very good at chopping wood,” he said to himself. It was too quiet out here on the trail he was following by instinct. “No green pieces in here, they’re all of a size, and will burn quite nicely. Well done, lad.”

  “Were ye talkin’ to me, laddie?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

  Magnus stepped back the slightest bit, startled by the sudden appearance of an old crone in a dark cloak. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Well, were ye?”

  “Ahh…no, as it happens. Just trying to fill the silence.”

  The old woman tilted her head, considering. “But isn’t that why a body comes to a place like this? To enjoy the silence?”

  She was grinning at him and he could not understand why. “I suppose tis pleasant—”

  “Or are ye waitin’ for someone?” She cackled and he took offence.

  “Well, I’m right, am I no’? No point in gettin’ snippy about it.” She began to shuffle through the enormous pockets in her cape. “I had a message for ye, but what was it? The broken crown? No. The secret pact? No, that was the couple in the Hebrides. Och! I remember now. I’m to remind ye that when ye meet her, she’s so strong ye’ll think she’s invincible. But she’s fragile too. Look with different eyes, me lad. Different eyes will do it.”

  With a flap of her cape, she disappeared.

  Magnus was left completely bewildered. “But who—? What—?”

  He stood with his mouth hanging open, looking very much like a large, confused fish.

  ~ * ~

  By the time she found a place to stop and camp for the night, Esmé was exhausted. The oak, near enough a stream that she could get to water, was wide and tall, its branches spread in a leafless canopy over the peat and the red mud by the burn. Esmé dropped her bag, carefully removing her tight-wrapped package of bannocks and sweet rolls and fistfuls of dried meat.

  She observed the tree closely and finally found a knot she was sure she could use to climb up to the seat of the branches, where she could leave the food for the night—out of the reach of animals. She boosted herself up, clinging to the trunk, when she heard a growl behind her.

  Freezing as she had done once before in her life, she heard the growl grow closer and ever closer. She was too terrified to face the beast, for she feared she knew what it was, but even in that deadly moment her curiosity was uncontrollable. Esmé turned her head the tiniest bit and found herself face to face with a huge old bear. Reaching out for her packet of food, it stood so close she could feel its breath on her face. Time seemed to stand still as she glanced down and saw an old wound track along its hip and leg. Her heart, which had stopped beating, began to pound again.

  For a reason she could not understand, she stared into the great bear’s face, directly into its eyes. Her gaze seemed to hypnotize it, but only briefly; the bear roared its most fearsome snarl.

  Esmé did not look away. She simply stared, her silver-grey eyes steady.

  Strangely, the bear did the same.

  Finally breaking out of her trance, the girl threw the food as far as she could. When the bear followed the food, she slid down the tree and took shelter in a hollowed out space on the far side. But the bear did not return. It had what it wanted.

  Esmé sat in the hollow for hours, knees pulled tightly to her chest, shivering, but not from the cold. She did not think she would ever breathe normally again. When the moon had set behind the trees, she crawled inch-by-inch to the burn and washed her body and her hair, both of which smelled like bear to her. The bear. She knew without a flicker of a doubt the beast had been the one that attacked her father. The one that had tried to make her choose. It could have killed her this time. But it had not even tried. The question that rang in her head like an ever-ringing church bell was why? Why had it let her live? She simply could not understand.

  ~ * ~

  That night she did not fall asleep until quite late. For hours she grasped the tree in stiff fingers, afraid to let it go. But when the dream floated across her eyes, she felt tranquil and satisfied and hungry for something—or someone—she did not know. She was in a pool surrounded by tilted boulders and warm flat rocks of gold and green and shades of rust. Above, a glittering waterfall tumbled over a steep drop in the river.

  Sliding her feet over the smooth stones beneath the golden water, she released her hair from its braid and leaned back so it fell into the cool, refreshing water. Above, the trees made a canopy of light and shadow, light green, mid-green, forest green, always moving, always changing with the dappled yellow sunlight. She closed her eyes and conjured music as easily as she conjured magic in the flowing, tinted air.

  All at once, she knew she was not alone. She turned with the river water rippling around her, stroking her naked skin. Shivering with delight, she saw a tall man made of vines intertwined with narrow branches and rolled green ferns. She could not mistake the shape or the intention of this man. He was moving toward her slowly with his face made of fern tips; she thought fleetingly that she ought to be frightened, but she knew there was no danger here.

  At least no o
rdinary danger.

  Esmé swayed and the water spread around her in circles that finally reached the man and drew him ever nearer. He caught her motion and copied it, and soon the pond was broken with a hundred widening circles. She thought he smiled, though he had no real features so she could not tell.

  Then came the moment when they stood waist deep across from one another. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but something physically held her back. She wanted to kiss him through the invisible barrier between them. Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to a misty veil, pretending it was his lips. And when their mouths met, it was oh, so sweet, so tender, such a promise and a revelation. They stood together but apart, enwrapped by the water, not touching, sometimes not seeing one another through the mist. The sensations that rolled over and through them were electric, melting, and enchanted.

  Chapter Eleven

  Magnus went hunting the next day. He walked and crouched and listened and sniffed but had no luck, until a strange wind flapped by, dislodging some rocks and revealing some wild sheep high up on a hillside, sheltering under a huge flat rock. He could see they were not doing well, so he gave them some grain he had brought along and dragged some water near. One however, had split its back hoof, probably on a sharp rock, and deep infection was already setting in. It would die soon and in great pain.

  He saved it from that, and himself from hunger. He sat for a long time beside the fire, considering how lucky he had been in general his whole life, brothers and Julia notwithstanding. For the first time he admitted to himself that he had not come in search of the wandering MacDonnell woman. He had come at the behest of The voice.

  He slept unaccountably well that night, and in the morning ate well again. He was about to discard the remnants, which were plentiful, when a high-pitched voice stopped him.

  “Just what do ye think you’re doin’, lad?”

  Magnus knew without looking that the old crone was back. “Cleaning up after myself,” he said, incensed by her accusing tone.

  “Wasting perfectly good meat, it seems to me.” She regarded him disapprovingly, her eyes narrowed to slits. “Healers should know better,” she intoned.

  “What am I to do with it, then? I’m certain you have a suggestion.”

  The crone shivered. “Tis cold out the day, and the river’s even more frigid, I’ll be bound. Ye could leave it underwater to preserve it, in case another traveler comes along.”

  “Another traveler?” He pointed all around at the silent, winter bound landscape with only patches of grass and mud and wildflowers here and there. “Who would be daft enough to travel to a place like this?”

  The woman tilted her head in reply, tilting her forehead at him.

  Magnus threw his hands up in despair. “Aye, weel, you’re right about that.” Why are ye talking to her anyway? She just a figment of your imagination? Yet he still felt guilty.

  “Look here,” he demanded, “what is your name, in case I see ye again.”

  She rubbed her chin between two fingers, considering whether or not to answer. “Gertrude.” She stood with arm crossed as if waiting for him to bow as if she were royalty.

  “Och, no! Tis ye who should bow to me,” he growled.

  “Then tell me this—if I abandoned ye out of spite, how, exactly would ye find yer way?”

  Magnus chose the wise path and did not answer. Instead he dragged the meat to icy river, tying it to a rock and muttering all the way. “Waste of time. Complete waste of time. Another traveler. Bollocks.”

  ~ * ~

  Esmé was starving when she reached a good camping place two days later. She was too proud and too ashamed to ask for food at the cottages she passed, and there had been none for a long time now. Besides, the medallion had not told her to stop. Until now. “I wish I’d overcome my pride and asked,” she said out loud. That’s what Grandmam would have done.” She alternated talking and playing her flute to keep herself company. She had never been so lonely in her life, except, of course, in her dreams, when she was never alone.

  She dropped her bag among the long twisted roots of the tree and went to examine the fire. The stones and the ashes were cold; the fire had gone out long ago. Esmé was disappointed and her belly growled, especially when she stirred the ashes and raised the smell of meat. But there was really nothing left; the juices must have dripped into the fire. Standing, she rubbed her temples where her head ached terribly. “I never get headaches,” she said. “It’s the hunger and weariness and the aching.” She was trying not to complain, but she thought it must be all right if no one was around to hear her.

  Just then she noticed a thin trail of blood leading to the river. “Probably just the offal,” she told herself so she wouldn’t be disappointed. Kneeling on the bank, she leaned forward and was overjoyed to find the meat of a lamb tucked under peat and rushes. Weak with relief, she lifted it out and began, unaccountably, to cry.

  Esmé had sounded brave when she explained this to her grandmother, but the truth was, she did not quite believe she would be guided to her mysterious location, that she would be protected, that it was urgent she do as The Voice asked. She’d believed, momentarily, that the bear might kill her, that she’d not find her way, that she had no strength to go on such a journey. She had even believed she would starve.

  She was astonished to realize that somehow she had survived it all, alone, frightened and inexperienced. She could not help but smile at whoever had left this meat for the next traveler to come along. Because she knew full well that without it, this would have been the end of her journey.

  She did not wonder about The Voice and what it needed from her, because she knew she could never guess. That one mystery she would have to leave in other hearts and others souls until the time was right. As she ate, her excitement rose again. She hoped she could do whatever it was. She did not assume she could; she had failed too many times for that. But maybe, just perhaps, this time she would succeed.

  ~ * ~

  In Magnus’s dream, he was following a hind, his bow ready, arrow within reach. The deer led him deeper and deeper into the forest, until it became a rough wilderness where the ferns grew as tall as his shoulders and the moss climbed the craggy boulders beside the passionate rush of the river. He felt he knew this place, though he was certain he had never been there previously. The shapely trees breathed in, and on their outward breath came a call to his heart, which before had been shielded. He sighed in both pleasure and sorrow as the ferns brushed over his arms and legs, clinging only slightly, drawing out the soft, giving side he never showed. All around the living things took on the feel and scent and fire of women. He glanced up and the clouds formed vessels, and everywhere he looked there was seduction and desire.

  Magnus thought of the shadow woman and suddenly she was near but just beyond his reach. In the instant he saw her, his bow disappeared, and the arrows hanging from his back. He was defenseless against her slender, ethereal form, but she moved gently, and he could not resist. He held out his arms with a silent cry, and The Voice cried out too, calling and calling.

  The shadow woman stood a breath away from him: hip to hip, toe to toe, arms to arms and lips to lips. So very, very close, but so, so far away. He could not cross that tiny space between them, nor could she. Still he felt he was touching her, kissing her, her lips parting under his, shaking him so deeply that he almost lost his balance.

  Come to me, Magnus! Only you can help me. You are chosen. You and the other. Come! For an instant more he lingered, then turned away from the promise and his craving and her undefined beauty. He awoke with tears on his cheeks. He could feel her hair around his face and shoulders; he was aroused, hungry, had been too long without a woman. “This woman is different,” he said, as if to make it so. “More alluring by far because I can see into her dreams. I can kiss her in my dreams.”

  At last he woke up fully, lying deep in fresh snow. “Ridiculous!” he shouted, fighting back the images which had held him in thrall. And yet—and
yet. He felt he knew this dream woman as he had never known Julia. He could not tell what she was thinking, which is why it was so easy for her to lie, and for him to believe. She did not fill him, or rid him of the ache and the darkness.

  Of course it was not Julia calling him; she could never have touched him so deeply on the wound he neither admitted to having nor showed to others. Yet The Voice seemed to both rip the scab off that wound and promise healing—and something more. Far more.

  He took out some strips of dried beef and gnawed on them as he packed up his pointed leather bag and continued on his way north.

  Chapter Twelve

  Magnus woke abruptly, his heart pounding so hard he could not catch his breath. His dark hair covered his face and his eyes were closed, so he could not see—did not wish to see. He knew when he opened them it would be there: the challenge, the final effort on this lengthy, confusing journey.

  He sat for a long, painful time, waiting for the thunder in his chest to cease, for his breath to come more easily, but nothing changed. Finally, in resignation, in anticipation, in fear that he would not be enough for what he had to face, he opened his eyes and swept his hair back.

  A winter world, frozen from end to end, lay stretched before him: jagged mountain peaks and slick frozen lochs; white, glittering snow nearly covering the evergreens of spruce and cedar—the ends of the branches the only color in sight.

  How had he gotten here? He did not remember climbing so high or hiking through ice and over slippery rock. Magnus glanced back to discover the same world of winter behind him: glass-topped mountains, frozen rivers stopped half rush, an infinite forest of evergreens. It was pristine, untouched, with no footprints or broken rocks to show his passing. “Because,” he said out loud, “I did not come that way.”

  And yet, here he was. He held his hand above his eyes to block out the sun and peered across to the mountains that rose in the distance. He did not know how he was to get there, but he knew that was where he must be. He tried to stand, knowing he would fall—but he managed to stay upright. He was wearing the strangest looking things on the bottom of his boots. Inside a tautly curved and braided leather, someone had woven tight strings back and forth, under and over in a diamond pattern. The bizarre woven things were tied over top his boots.