A booming noise surrounded him as the surface of the sea was disturbed. Tiny points radiated out in concentric circles, interrupted by the next droplet. Another loud bang sounded, and Creag woke with a start.
He sat bolt upright, his eyes blurry and unfocused in the shadows. For a moment he didn’t know where he was, but then he recognized the interior of the byre. One of the pony’s heads was lowered. Its big round eye stared unblinking at him as it chewed a mouthful of hay. Its croup and thighs twitched from the midges resting on its hide. Without warning, its back leg lifted and its hoof connected with the wall behind it, repeating the same thunderous sound that had presumably woken him.
Creag wiped the sleep from his eyes and cleared his throat. The soft glow of morning light began to creep in through the open threshold of the byre, and he knew it was time to rise for the day. He doubted he could be of any use, but he would be prepared to help regardless. Kristie had seemed a mite twisted at him yesterday evening. If he wanted to remain there, he would have to smooth things over.
He lifted his plaid from his body so he could get to his feet. Besides the stiffness in his joints from sleeping on the earthen floor of the byre, he was without any aches or pains. Creag picked up his walking stick and sighed. He was confident Kristie would be eager to be rid of him. She’d told him as much. If she knew he was well, he would be sent off with nowhere to go. He decided to keep up with the lie for reasons of self-preservation.
Creag brushed the dirt from his tunic and shook out the plaid before wrapping the lower half around his waist so he could cinch it with the leather strap he’d been offered as a belt. Once that was done, he lifted the upper half of the fabric over his shoulders so he might stay warm against the chill in the air.
With his walking stick in hand, he limped barefoot out of the animal shed to gaze out on the loch’s still waters. The winds had not yet stirred, nor was there any sign the bleak weather would lift its finger again. Something drew him toward the shore, a sense of belonging.
He thought of Jock’s tale of the selkies and laughed to himself. Who could have known there was truth to the magic he spoke of? After yesterday’s experience in the water, an unexpected part of himself had been revealed, though before the injury, which had caused his memory loss, he must have known what he truly was—a selkie. But he still didn’t know his name or where he belonged. Did he have kin waiting and worrying over his safe return the way Kristie was over her brother? There was no telling.
“Oh, I see ye are up. Is yer leg any better today?”
Kristie was coming around the side of the home with a basket in hand. Her fair, golden locks were hidden under her green plaid, which covered her head and body.
Her question made him nervous. She was clearly ready to be rid of him, and he couldn’t blame her. He was another mouth to feed, and with so many unanswered questions about his identity, it would be easier to send him on his way. Creag hoped to have a little more time to give his memory the chance to return. And this seemed a safe place to be for now, so long as Kristie wasn’t tempted to thrust the hayfork in his direction again.
He reached down to touch his knee and muttered, “It still gives me pains, but I want to be of use to ye.”
“It would be useful if ye could remember who ye be,” she said wistfully. “But I would not be expecting that so soon. Never mind me, I grumble to myself just to know someone is listening. I have a load of washing to do, and our stores are getting a mite low, so I was off to forage for garlic and catch sight of the heifers to see if we have any new wee ones yet.”
He was relieved to observe that she didn’t seem as irritable as last night. She seemed to be tightly wound. One of her less desirable traits, but one he found amusing in many ways.
“Do ye wish company?” He gestured toward the fields that were out of view. “Or I could stay to the byre if ye prefer.”
Kristie took a moment thinking about it. Her eyes moved from him to the back side of the home. She sighed loudly and said, “Well, if ye wish to help me collect some garlic, then my chore will go more quickly, unless ye move slower than a winkle on a rock.”
Creag laughed at her comment, though he was sure she hadn’t intended to tease him. Her serious expression revealed just how grave she was. Her eyes flashed in response, and he muffled his snickers to assure her, “I will not be looking to compete with any winkle, snail or lifeless rock for the slowest arse of the land, though ye might award it to me in the end, just the same.”
She rolled her eyes at him and turned around. While she started away from the home on a faint path that moved parallel to the loch, she called over her shoulder, “Very well then, ye best keep up.”
His amusement returned. She was so easily riled. He parted his lips into a smirk, one he was unafraid of being caught wearing. Possibly because she took to the trail ahead and walked with her back to him, or because he considered her prickly mantle all bluff and buster. Either way, she was unaware of Creag chuckling to himself as he shuffled behind her with the help of his walking stick.
They moved from eyesight of the loch and the plowed fields and into a grove of birch trees, which had not yet filled in its leafy canopy. Black scars marked their milky white trunks, and moss covered their roots and rough bases. The old barren growth that was dormant over winter now showed signs of life. Green shoots covered the earth between the trees, and a fragrant aroma filled the air.
Kristie knelt down in the spear-shaped leaves at her feet and began to pull the shoots out of the ground. She placed their pale stalks and emerald fronds in her basket.
Creag moved closer, stepping on some of the shoots. The smell he’d noticed when they entered the grove became even stronger. He watched her pull a few more bundles from the earth before he walked closer. Her hands grew dirty as she brushed the soil from the roots. He happened to notice the glint of silver around her finger.
“Will yer husband be helping with the plowing when he returns?” he asked casually, not wanting to ask directly after his whereabouts. He tried to imagine the sort of fellow who would enjoy her company.
She stopped, resting her elbow on her knee. Staring into the distance, she muttered, “Well, if I waited for him to help ’round here, we would surely starve. He will not be returning ever again—he died fighting for our freedom. And dinnae think I be looking for a plowing neither—ye will find a blade in yer gullet.”
“That never crossed my mind,” Creag answered, enjoying how easy it was to rile her.
“Best keep it that way if ye intend to live on ’til morning.” She rubbed her forehead before continuing to pick the wild garlic, clearly not wanting to speak more about her husband or anything else.
As prickly as she was, Kristie had provided a safe place for him to recover. Maybe his memories would come back soon so he could understand where he belonged. If not, he might be forced to roam the coast like a tinker if he was cast out from this place. He knew he had his own problems to work out, but looking at Kristie persisting with her chores despite her brother’s continued absence, and following his realization that her daughter and husband had died, he forgave her barking.
Just beyond the little glen where she was squatting, a carpet of white flowers littered the hillside. He puckered his lips and started whistling a tune without thinking. The sound of it was a surprise, for it made him wonder where he’d heard it before. His disorientation accompanied him as he walked toward the spray of snowy florets. Using the walking stick for support, he bent over to pluck a few of the stalks covered with opaque, bell-shaped blooms.
“The Lord made birds for squawking,” Kristie muttered as her plaid slipped from the top of her head, revealing her golden tresses.
Creag smirked to himself. The permanent frown holding her lips ransom seemed forged of iron, but he was curious what her face might look like if a smile broke free. He hoped to find out, sensing there was more to her than her abrasive exterior.
He leaned on his walking stick and hobbled toward her. K
ristie’s arms were covered by her plaid, but her hands were exposed and busy at work, pulling wild garlic from the ground cover. She grumbled, “Not understanding why ye came if ye were not going to lift a finger to help.”
When he edged near enough to hold out the modest bouquet of flowers to her, he cleared his throat. She didn’t appear to notice and stood up with a sigh.
“Well, I have enough veg for now. We cannae eat it all.” She glanced over her shoulder back the way they’d come. “Best get closer to home to check on the heifers. There be a number of them looking a mite edgy.”
Creag held out the flowers to her. “These are for ye. They remind me of ye, for they hang their heads too and are just as bonnie.”
Her eyes went straight to the blooms, and she put her hands on her hips, the basket of garlic brushing against the folds of her plaid. “Aye, and sometimes even bonnie things can make ye sick. Unless ye are after giving us all stomach cramps, we best keep those away from the veg.”
He lowered his hand and broke off one of the florets from its stalk and nestled it into the hair at her temple. She turned around and waited with her back to him. Creag stared at the languid white bells before dropping the rest to the ground.
He tilted his head to the side to look at her silhouette. He wasn’t cross with her; he understood where her bitterness came from. It simply meant he’d have to try again and again if he wished to see her icy exterior thaw.
Kristie pulled her plaid over her head again to cover her flushed cheeks. She hadn’t been expecting a handful of wildflowers from the fellow. In fact, the only flowers she’d ever received from Duncan was a pile of blooming weeds after he’d cleared the garden. She had picked bluebells, ling and broom in her youth, and even when she’d taken walks with Seonaid before she fell sick. Kristie hadn’t thought of doing such a thing since that time when she’d kindled a flicker of happiness in her heart.
Kristie began to walk ahead of the outsider, listening for his footfalls behind her. As she led the way back to the half-plowed fields, her fingers lifted to her temple to trace over the silky petal he’d tucked in her hair. A handsome fellow such as he was likely philandered about getting into all sorts of trouble. That could have explained the welt on his head: an angry husband catching his wife with a flower-wielding stranger.
She chided herself. Now she really was getting caught up and sounding like Jock weaving his imaginative tales. Kristie let her hand fall to her side. There was work to be done. Always more work. She had no time for the outsider and his problems, for she had her own pressing concerns. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure he was still following and found him walking behind her with his eyes focused on the loch beyond the trees.
Instead of continuing to the house, she turned to cross their fields to the common pastureland. Kristie called over her shoulder, “Ye can return to the byre. I have it in my mind to check on the cattle.”
She hurried over the rocky earth and the infertile patches on the outskirts of their land. The best soil was nearest to home. The outfields tended to get sodden with too much rain. They’d never produced more than four times their seed. A tenth was paid to the church and a much larger portion to their lord.
The cattle milled about in the distance with their heads bent, eating the newest shoots of grass that had begun to sprout with the season. They’d lost a number from their herd over the winter as they usually did to cold weather and starvation. The ones who remained standing in the spring were at their thinnest. Some were brown and others black. Their shaggy coats made them appear only slightly more nourished than they truly were. They were no less sturdy and stubborn when it came to surviving than the folk who bred them. But sometimes there was only so much you could do before your time came to an end.
Kristie scanned the hillside, noticing a few new calves standing beside their mothers. Their dark round eyes watched her approach curiously. They were so young it was likely the first time they’d seen a human come near. As she got closer, the heifers walked away, leading their young with them.
If Domnall had been there, he would have been counting the head of cattle to determine how many they’d lost over the winter, but Kristie didn’t know their starting number. It had been something he’d taken care of. She doubted Jean would know either. She squinted at the pasture and slipped the plaid from her head, letting it settle around her shoulders.
She’d momentarily forgotten about the outsider. Shuffling sounds drew her attention, and she turned around. The fellow was bent over his walking stick as he moved near. He’d managed to keep up despite his injury.
“Ye are frightening the wee ones.” She sighed. “Looking like a five-legged abomination.”
He grinned back at her and said, “It be the six-legged ones ye best look out for.”
Kristie looked back at the grazing cattle in annoyance. No matter what she said to him, he was unfazed. She simply wanted to be left alone. His buffoonery was distracting and was keeping her from what required her attention: her growing list of chores.
She started walking away from him across the field. She pressed the folds of her plaid to her stomach as she picked up the pace, wanting to put some distance between them. Her basket of wild garlic swung at her side as she moved.
Kristie came upon a sea of flowering gorse. Its yellow flowers were just starting to emerge. The shrubbery reached shoulder height, and its long woody branches created a screen of green leaves and fragrant blooms. It was a common sight at this time of year.
While she hurried beside the bushes, she noticed them rustle and move, despite the winds’ present stillness. She slowed to take a closer look. A path had been forged through the gorse into a tamped-down clearing. Kristie peered through the opening.
A shaggy black heifer was lying on the ground, panting. A spindly pair of hooves emerged out her back end. The cow turned to blink at Kristie and adjusted on the ground, appearing to flex its muscles before relaxing again.
“Oh!” Kristie exclaimed.
She had never actually seen a heifer calving before. They always snuck out of sight to birth in private, then they would simply appear with their young. She’d overheard Domnall speaking about the process to Hendrie before, though she hadn’t paid attention since she wasn’t fond of tending to the creatures.
Kristie tried to remember the bits and pieces she’d heard. She didn’t think it was a lengthy process, but one that should be over with relatively quickly. So she waited to see what would happen next.
The heifer seemed to forgive Kristie’s nearness and continued to flex and strain, trying to push the calf the rest of the way out. Before long, Kristie sensed she wasn’t alone and glanced toward the field and found the outsider only a stride away from her. His eyebrow was lifted and his head cocked to the side as he stared questioningly at her. Instead of saying a word, she waved him over so he could see for himself.
The fellow walked to her side with the help of his cane, peered around the screen of brush to gaze at the laboring cow and whispered, “She looks to be in a bit of distress.”
She retorted, feeling annoyed, “How do ye know? Ye ever seen a heifer calving her young before? Has yer memory come back to ye?”
She watched a frown wrinkle his forehead as he appeared to consider her questions. “I cannae say why I be thinking it, but look into her eyes. She seems a mite tired.”
Despite her annoyance when he commented about anything that had to do with their property or what needed tending, she reluctantly agreed. The heifer was laying on her side and had stopped flexing her muscles. Kristie remembered her own time in labor with Seonaid and how painful and tiring it had been. Jean had been there for her. It had taken what felt like all night to push her little girl from her loins. Her sister-in-law had been there to collect Seonaid in a swath of linen fabric.
She couldn’t imagine walking off on your own to push your child out in quiet determination without anyone there to help and encourage you. The cattle were filled with far more steel and
grit to do it on their own, Kristie thought as she stared at the exhausted creature.
“I can say with confidence that ye would know nothing about bringing a bairn into the world except for yer part in making one. Step aside and stop yer gawking.” She thrust the basket into his chest, and he reflexively grabbed it before stumbling back a step.
Kristie had no idea if she was doing right by the animal, but she could see its calf hadn’t budged since she’d discovered them in the clearing. She knew enough to realize that if the wee one didn’t come out, the mother and calf could both die. Childbirth could indeed be dangerous for all creatures.
When she stepped closer to the animal, it struggled to sit upright. She knelt at the backside of the heifer and laid her hand on its thigh so it would know she was there. Then she touched the hooves of the calf that were barely out of its mother. Kristie took a deep breath and slid her hands into the heifer’s birth canal to get a better grip on the bairn. The cow’s muscles flexed again, so Kristie used it to her advantage, trying to pull its youngling out.
The knobby legs slid out farther, including its hindquarters, and Kristie realized the calf was backward. She waited for the mother’s muscles to contract again before she pulled once more. Part of the calf’s body slid onto the ground. The effort it took Kristie left her shoulders sore, but she knew it was almost out.
She stepped back to take a deep breath and readjusted her hold on the calf’s back legs. When the heifer’s stomach, back muscles and thighs flexed yet again, Kristie put her back into it and dragged the baby from its mother. Its limp body flopped onto the ground, including the afterbirth.
Kristie gasped in surprise, relieved to see the calf born. She shared a glance with the outsider before watching the heifer rise to its hooves and call softly to its young. It turned around to lick the coating from its calf’s fur.
Outsider (Time of Myths: Shapeshifter Sagas Book 4) Page 6
