by Katy Baker
Of course, that was a long time ago. Much had changed. Now Andrew rode alone and his father and brothers were only memories. Ever since that day...
“Yah!”
Andrew urged his mount to greater speed, desperately trying to drown out the memories that threatened to overwhelm him. Mud flew from beneath the horse’s hooves and squelched and slipped as they moved. The trail wound perilously close to the cliff edge and the horse rolled her eyes in fright. Andrew clutched the reins and urged her forward, not allowing her to slow.
The thrill of danger filled him. These days only when he was risking himself did he feel truly alive. Perhaps that was the reason he rode recklessly on dangerous paths. Perhaps that's why he insisted on making the rounds of his lands alone, without his guardsmen, even though he knew there were thieves and brigands about.
Andrew looked up just in time to see a figure standing on the trail ahead. It was a gray-haired old woman. She stood stock still, right in the path of his horse. Andrew yanked the horse savagely to the side, missing the old woman by less than an arm’s length.
With a growled curse, Andrew pulled his mount to a halt, jumped to the ground and advanced on the woman.
“Have ye lost yer wits, woman?” he bellowed. "What were ye doing getting in my way like that? I could have trampled ye!” He was so angry he shook. Everything seemed to make him angry these days.
The old woman didn't flinch as Andrew towered over her, fists clenched at his sides. Andrew was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered like his father and he knew that many found his physical presence intimidating, yet this woman seemed not in the least disturbed by his tirade.
She looked up at him, fixing him with her small dark eyes and then smiled. "What am I doing, ye ask?" she said in a cheerful voice. "I would have thought that was obvious, my lad. I'm out walking, enjoying this fine day. It seems to me that ye were the one not looking where ye were going."
Andrew ground his teeth. How dare she speak to him that way? Didn't she realize he was the laird of these lands? Didn't she realize that she owed him respect?
But before he could utter a word, a sudden wave of shame rolled over him and his anger melted away. The old woman was right. He had no business riding the trail like that, heedless of his own safety and of those around him. What if it had been a child on the road? What if he'd have been unable to shift his horse in time?
A laird's first duty was to his people. His father had always taught him that. The laird of a clan sits at the top of a pyramid and the pyramid was held up by the people below him, the people under his care. If they fell, so would he and the clan would no longer function. How many times had he sat through his father's lessons? How many times had he stared out of the window instead of listening, wishing he was elsewhere, somewhere exciting and full of adventure?
But where did that adventure get me in the end? he thought. Oh, Father. I'm sorry.
"My... my apologies,” he mumbled. "I didnae see ye on the trail.”
The old woman cocked her head as she watched him. "Mayhap ye weren't watching yer trail because ye were too busy looking back. Always looking back, Andrew Harris. Always reliving the past. Never looking forward towards yer future.”
Andrew frowned. "How do ye know who I am?"
"Are ye not the laird?" She shrugged. "I knew ye as a boy. I visited yer home from time to time."
“Ye did? I dinna remember ye.”
She laughed a deep belly rumble. "Aye, well. I wouldnae expect ye to. Ye were only a lad then. I’m Irene MacAskill.”
The name sounded familiar although Andrew couldn't quite place it. As Irene held out her hand, Andrew took it and kissed the back of it before giving the woman a small bow. "Pleased to make yer acquaintance, my lady."
She raised an eyebrow at him. "My lady is it? I dinna think so. But ye are courteous, just like yer father. At least ye are when ye remember not to be angry. I remember a young boy full of life and laughter. Always asking questions. Always wondering where the next adventure might lie. But that's not the man I see before me now, is it, Andrew Harris?"
Her gaze seemed to pierce him to the quick and he suddenly felt uncomfortable. And as always when he felt uncomfortable, his anger rose.
"I dinna ken what ye mean, woman,” he growled. "Now if ye’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”
He moved to push past her but her hand snapped around his wrist and held him in a grip of iron.
“What are ye doing? Unhand me, woman!”
“That boy was the hope of the islands,” she said. “Now that hope is fading. Look around ye. Clan Harris is sliding into decline. Yer people struggle on through bad harvests and increasing raids, hoping their laird will lead them to a better future. But what hope is there when their laird has none of his own?"
“How dare ye?” Andrew grated. "How dare ye presume to know me? Ye have no idea of what ye speak! Ye have no idea what Clan Harris has endured. Ye dare talk to me about hope when ye have no idea of what I’ve done? Perhaps I dinna deserve any hope!”
“I know what happened, lad,” Irene replied softly. "And I know what it did to ye. But there has to be hope. There has to be light, otherwise everything will fall into ruin." She let go of his arm and shook her head sadly. “I canna help ye if ye dinna want to be helped. Ye have to find yer way back, lad. Back to the path ye were meant to walk. I can give ye one final chance if ye open yer heart and accept the help that comes yer way."
Andrew stepped back a few paces. What was she talking about? He didn't need her help! He didn't need anybody's help! “Are ye a witch?” he asked, clutching the cross hanging around his neck.
She shook her head solemnly. "I'm a friend. Some would call me a meddler but I make no apologies for that. I willnae stand by and watch such potential snuffed out. Goodbye, Andrew Harris. I hope ye find yer path before it’s too late."
She stepped past Andrew and continued down the trail. After she had gone several paces, she paused and turned back. "Oh, those horse thieves ye are looking for? Ye might want to try the road past Gregor’s Beck.”
Then she turned and walked away.
Andrew opened his mouth to call her back. He had so many questions. Who was she? How did she know so much about him? Why had she said those strange things? But the words wouldn't come. Part of him didn't want to know the answers. So he watched in silence until she dwindled to a speck in the distance.
Only when she was out of sight did he turn to his mount and climb into the saddle. He directed his horse in the direction of Gregor’s Beck. It was only after he'd been riding several miles that he realized something. Irene MacAskill had told him where to find the horse thieves.
But he had never mentioned them.
Chapter 3
LUCY LIFTED THE VIOLIN from her shoulder and clasped it by the neck as she stood with the rest of the orchestra to take the applause of the audience. It was thunderous. It washed over Lucy like a wave, lifting her up on the thrill of exhilaration. She couldn't help the huge grin that spread over her face.
It had been like this ever since she joined the tour in Edinburgh. She'd arrived jet lagged and nervous, unsure what to expect and worried she’d not be able to perform to the level required. But her fears, luckily, proved unfounded. Despite her tiredness, despite the last-minute rush of packing, the tearful farewell to her aunt and uncle and the long plane ride, that first concert in Edinburgh had gone better than she ever dared to hope.
That was a week ago and they had played two other concerts since. The Arts Council sponsored their tour and the orchestra was playing a series of summer concerts in the grounds of some of Scotland's historic buildings. Tonight's concert had taken place in the ruins of a Highland castle. The ruins were decked out in hundreds of candles, giving it a mystical, almost otherworldly atmosphere.
The location had been chosen perfectly and the acoustics of the half-tumbled walls that surrounded their stage amplified their music and sent it rippling across the spectators in a way that left many of th
em with tears streaming down their faces.
“More! More!” The audience chanted but the conductor bowed and bid them good night. It had been agreed that they wouldn't do encores. Always leave them wanting more, the conductor explained.
Lucy scanned the faces of the crowd and startled suddenly as she recognized one of them. Irene MacAskill was standing in the front row, almost directly in front of Lucy and was clapping enthusiastically. She was wearing an ornate ball gown and wore a little tiara perched on top of her gray curls. The effect was startling. She looked like an elderly queen rather than the eccentric tourist who had accosted her back in New York. Irene caught Lucy's gaze and smiled, giving Lucy an unobtrusive thumbs-up. Lucy smiled back.
The musicians filed off the stage and Lucy joined them in the small holding area at the back. The area was full of conversation as everyone discussed how the concert had gone and congratulated each other on their performance. Lucy exchanged pleasantries with a few of her fellow performers, replaced her violin in its case, and then slipped out of the wings.
She scanned the crowd, searching for a diminutive figure wearing a tiara but Irene was nowhere to be seen. Then through the milling crowds she caught sight of Irene walking further into the ruins.
"Irene!" Lucy called. "Wait!"
Lucy took off after her, weaving through the clumps of people. Soon the crowds dwindled and she found herself amid crumbling stone walls, most no higher than one story. Here and there columns stood by themselves, the only remains of the buildings they once supported. A gravel path snaked through the ruins and Lucy saw Irene just ahead. Then she disappeared around a corner.
Lucy broke into a jog. She didn't want to lose her now. Lucy had no idea how the old woman had done it, or even why she’d done it, but she knew that Irene MacAskill was somehow responsible for Lucy landing the role with the orchestra. The least she could do was give the woman her thanks.
Lucy reached the spot where Irene had disappeared and halted, looking around. It was so gloomy Lucy struggled to make out anything except the looming shapes of the ruins. But then she noticed something sparkling in the moonlight and after closer inspection she realized it was the tiara that Irene was wearing.
The old woman was standing by a crumbling wall. A large ornate opening filled most of that wall, a window at a guess. It formed a kind of archway that towered over Irene's small figure.
Lucy left the path and hurried over. "There you are! I thought I'd lost you."
Irene MacAskill looked at Lucy and smiled. "Oh ye’ll never lose me, my dear. I'll be right here whenever ye need me."
"I saw you at the concert. It was you, wasn't it? It was you who got me the job?"
A mischievous glint came into Irene’s eyes. "Whatever are ye talking about, lass?”
"I think you know exactly what I'm talking about," Lucy replied, determined not to be put off by Irene’s claims to innocence. "I don't know why you helped me, we only met for five minutes that day in New York, but whatever you did, I'm grateful."
"Like I said, my dear, I've no idea what yer talking about."
Lucy raised an eyebrow. "Okay. Sure, if that's how you want to play it. But, Irene? Thank you."
Irene smiled, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening. "Ye are welcome, dear. Did it turn out to be everything ye hoped?”
"And more. It's been wonderful. Playing music for a living? What could be better than that?"
Irene MacAskill cocked her head. "What indeed? And has it helped to heal that heart of yers?"
"What do you mean?"
"I think ye know what I mean, lass. Ye’ve filled yer life with music, trying to fill that hole inside yerself. And it's worked. For now. What I wonder is, what happens after the tour is finished? When ye have to go back to yer old life? Will ye still be healed or will the old wounds reopen?" All mirth had vanished from Irene's face and her expression was serious.
Her words unsettled Lucy. They came too close to a truth she didn't want to acknowledge. She had deliberately not thought about the end of the tour. She hoped something would come up: they’d ask her to stay on or she’d find some other gig out here. Anything so she wouldn't have to return to who she used to be, to the hurt that still festered deep inside whenever she wasn't playing her music.
"There is a way, lass. A way to be healed. A way to fulfill yer destiny, and find yer heart’s desire," Irene said.
Lucy shook her head. This was all becoming a little weird. “I...um...I should go back. The bus will be leaving for the hotel soon. I don't want to miss it."
Irene said nothing. Lucy found herself unable to leave. Something about Irene's words nagged at her. What she wouldn't give to feel whole again. What she wouldn't give to wake every morning and not feel that sinking pit in her stomach. What she wouldn't give to trust someone again, instead of wondering about someone's motives whenever they showed her kindness. Could Irene give her that?
“How?” she found herself asking. "How can I be healed?"
"Simple, my dear. Ye walk through this archway. On the other side ye will find a task awaiting ye. If ye accept, ye just might be able to save a life. And in the process ye will find yer own path to happiness.”
Lucy glanced up at the arching stone window frame that towered above them both. What the hell? Going through that would give her her heart’s desire? What the hell was Irene talking about?
"I canna decide for ye, lass. It must be yer choice." Irene said. Then she patted Lucy on the arm and walked away. In only seconds, she’d disappeared amongst the ruins.
Lucy stared at the space she’d occupied and then glanced at the archway again. Irene MacAskill was clearly crazy. She was probably some eccentric rich woman with influence. That must have been how she'd gotten Lucy the job with the orchestra. Perhaps Lucy was her pet project. Perhaps she was one of these eccentric rich people who liked to show altruism to random people and Lucy had just so happened to be in the right place at the right time.
But that rubbish about her being healed if she went through the arch? That crap about her finding her heart's desire? That was the kind of stuff that Aunt Helen would read about in one of her horoscope magazines.
Ridiculous, the lot of it.
And yet, Lucy didn't leave. She knew she ought to be getting back but for a reason she couldn't quite explain, she felt drawn to this spot, drawn to the archway above her. Through it, she could see an expanse of grass spreading out in the darkness and the shadows of trees on the skyline in the distance. Stars twinkled in the patch of sky framed by the archway’s curving walls.
"This is crazy," she muttered to herself. She took a step forward. "Totally crazy." She took another step. And another. "You're as bad as Aunt Helen, you know that?"
Then she took the final step and walked through the archway.
Chapter 4
HER FEET TOUCHED THE grass on the other side and blinding light enveloped her. She threw her arm up to cover her face then squinted. What idiot had shone a torch in her face? One of the security guards checking the ruins? But as she lowered her arm, she realized it was no torch that had blinded her.
It was daylight.
She found herself in a large, bright room. Rows of wooden seats filled the space with a door at the back. Wooden beams held up a vaulted ceiling. Behind her stood a platform that must be an altar and above this soared the stone archway she had passed through.
Except this was no longer the ruined remains of a window. Now the window was intact, filled with colored glass in the shape of a rose.
Lucy staggered, catching herself on the altar. A surge of panic sent her pulse racing. Where the hell was she? Where were the ruins? Where was the audience, the orchestra?
She was dreaming. She must be. Any minute now she would wake up in her hotel room. Squeezing her eyes tight shut, she tried to keep calm, and counted to one hundred. Then she opened her eyes again.
This wasn't her hotel. The bright room - a chapel perhaps - still surrounded her.
"Irene!" she
called. "Irene! What's going on? Where are you?"
There was no answer. Her cries echoed off the whitewashed walls and then died into silence.
"Hello? Is there anyone there? Someone! Please!”
The door suddenly opened.
Lucy almost sobbed with relief. "Irene! Thank God."
But it wasn't Irene. A man edged warily inside. He was middle-aged and had a shock of white hair, going thin on top. He wore a tatty pair of pants, knee-length leather boots that had seen better days, and some kind of tunic knitted in a tartan-like pattern.
The man startled when he saw her. “Are ye all right, lass? I heard ye hollering. I didnae think there was anyone here. I could have sworn it was deserted when I checked."
"Are you one of the security guards?" Lucy asked. "You have to find this woman called Irene MacAskill. She was here a minute ago. She's drugged me or something and brought me here. I’ve lost hours! It was night time the last I knew! Can you call the police?”
The man looked around warily. He glanced over her shoulder. "Where are yer companions, lass?"
"My companions? You mean the orchestra? That's just it, I've no idea where they are! Can I borrow your cell phone? I need to call the police and find out what the hell is going on!" This last sentence ended in a shriek.
The man shifted uncomfortably. He looked her up and down, taking in her dress and jewelry. He held up his hands. "Calm down, lass. Ye seem to be in some distress. I dinna understand what ye mean about ‘orchestra’ or ‘cell phone’ but I'll help ye if I can. Come sit by my fire and have some food and drink. Mayhap when ye’ve had a bite to eat things will make more sense."
He went to the door and yanked it open. Lucy followed. Outside was a make-shift camp. A fire burned in a ring of stones. Several horses were tethered nearby.
He pointed to the camp but Lucy didn't move. She had no idea who this guy might be. He wasn't a security guard that much was obvious. One of the locals? But why was he wearing such strange clothing? And why did he look as though he hadn't had a bath in weeks?
