Night Visitor

by Melanie Jackson

  Perhaps she was being over-cautious by setting a watch. The still-folk were apparently continuing to act as their friends. But what had passed in the stone corrie was still fresh in her mind and likely in theirs as well. She would take no chances on their trying to steal her away from Malcolm while they slept.

  As Malcolm lit their small fire, Taffy slid from her perch and went to stand beside an uneasy Smokey. The hound was squinting at the dawn sun rising up through the rain and sighing morosely.

  She sympathized. The light, though muted by silvery showers, still hurt her eyes, and she wondered if she would forever more love only the moon, and always shun the sun’s harsher light in its gentler favor.

  “It is bright, isn’t, boy?” she said, laying a hand atop his brindled head, and trying not to see Lady Dunstaffnage’s cleric clasped in the powerful jaws, which were but inches from her own body.

  Smokey sighed again and closed his eyes on the fire in the sky. For a moment, the beast leaned against her.

  Taffy sighed, too. The dawn also meant that another night had passed, bringing them to another faerie shelter and ever closer to their destination—the barrow—and the time when she would have to return to her world.

  Close in pursuit of that thought came the inevitable worry that perhaps—in spite of her threats—the faeries would not find the way to return Malcolm with her, and that he might be lost forever as dust on the low road that they would have to travel to her home.

  “No. It won’t happen,” she muttered.

  For how would she bear it if he was taken from her? No matter what conventional wisdom said about the healing properties of time, she knew that there would be no forgetfulness for her heart or mind. Separation of their bodies there might be, but division of the heart and mind and soul was not possible as long as she had her memories of him. The rational mind might recognize the passage of hours, days, months—even the long years—that were supposed to bring healing indifference, but her heart would never be whole again if he was taken from her. It would not forget that once it had been completed—no, not even in an eon would it fail to recall that once it had been joined to its other half.

  The apprehension of this fell chance was a heaviness in her breast that threatened to crowd out this time of peace and rest. Taking Malcolm’s advice not to pay heed to weariness or despair, she resolutely turned her stinging eyes and thoughts away from the harsh red brilliance of the new day.

  “Ah!” There was a wealth of satisfaction in Malcolm’s voice. “We’ve been forgiven, Taffy lass.”

  He turned and in his hands was a wooden tray, which held a loaf of bread, a small ball of cheese—and her flask!

  “Is it—?”

  “Aye. There’s water in the cave as well. Cold for drinking and a bit in there is a hot spring for bathing.”

  “Truly?” Some of the apprehension melted away. The still-folk surely would not have made them so comfortable if they were enraged by her demands.

  “It is. And there’s some dried grass tae make up a bed, so ye’ll no’ be resting on the hard stone. Which is well, so delicate as ye are,” he added, a betraying gleam in his eye.

  “It is very well,” she agreed, taking a seat near the tiny fire. “Especially as I have decided that it is high time that you rested on the floor instead.”

  “Aye? Well, then, if ye mean to pin me down, best ye have a meal and regain some strength.”

  Taffy accepted the offered bread, smiling smugly at the challenge laid before her.

  “I don’t think I shall need any particular strength to overcome you. You haven’t slept in a long while and it is a simple fact that women are the more cunning sex.”

  “Cunning, are ye? In what manner?”

  “Well, to begin with, I shall ply you with drink,” she said lightly, taking the flask and uncapping it. She passed it beneath his nose as if wielding a bottle of smelling salts. “Not enough to leave you sotted. Just pliant.”

  Getting no reaction from her ploy, Taffy dipped a finger into the flask and then drew the wetted tip across Malcolm’s lips.

  She was warned by a twitch beneath the sensitive finger pad, but she had no time to escape before finding herself captured in his teeth and his tongue laving her into shivers.

  The fey eyes watched her involuntary shudder with undisguised pleasure and his mouth curved into a wicked grin. He released her finger.

  “Ye needs must be quicker, Taffy lass, if ye are tae take me unawares.”

  “I think that perhaps a bit more whisky is needed,” she said, setting the bottle to her own lips. She was careful not to swallow, for it would make her sleepy, but she sheened her mouth with the potent drink. “And I never said that I wanted you unaware.”

  Being careful of the fire, she crawled over to Malcolm. Her hand at his chest urged him to lie back, and when he obliged, she stretched herself over him as a blanket. Her body was taut and balanced and she did not worry about crushing Malcolm beneath her weight. She had learned from experience that she would not bruise his agile body on the hard floor.

  She set her mouth lightly to his, moving over him with feigned leisure, ignoring her racing heart as she raised herself slightly with her lower arms so that she might arch fully into him.

  Malcolm made a sound that was midway between a groan and laughter, and clasped her about the waist, urging her to find her seat.

  The task was greatly hampered by the folds of her wet skirt, which had them tangled like a winding sheet.

  “Bloody hell,” she muttered, frustrated by her trapped legs.

  “ ’Tis not enough tae be bold, Taffy lass. One must also use a wee bit of strategy,” he said, rolling to one side and reaching for her blouse’s buttons with dexterous fingers. He grinned at her.

  Taffy smiled back, pleased with his playfulness, and charmed as ever by the sight before her. His hair was drying and the dark locks fell in waves about his face. His sark was plastered as close as skin to his broad chest, and its lacing conveniently at hand. He was more beautiful than she had ever seen him.

  “What are ye thinking, Taffy lass?”

  “That firelight becomes you.”

  His eyes widened slightly.

  “How plain ye have become, wife. How bright yer spirit. It fair dazzles me that ye can speak so clearly of what ye like.”

  “You told me not to hide,” she reminded him.

  “So I did! And good advice it was.”

  He touched his lips to hers, tasting carefully of the last traces of whisky upon them. Like her, he kissed without haste, allowing them to enjoy the sensations of building lust.

  His fingers were unhurried as he undressed her, removing first her blouse and then unfastening the ties of her chemise. He took his mouth from hers long enough for his eyes to follow his hand’s path as he pushed her damp skirts from her legs. The journey from thigh to ankle was a lingering one as he enjoyed the exquisite feel of her bared skin, calves to thighs, over the curve of waist to the softer pillows of breasts.

  Beneath his hands, her nipples tightened, bringing another smile to his lips as he read the signs of desire that changed her body. Taffy did not mind either the scrutiny or his outward pleasure for she, too, felt the familiar joy that came from a complete joining. Malcolm was her first and only love, and now husband in fact as well as in spirit. It was right to celebrate the union and wash away the ugly memories of what had passed the night before.

  Her hands tugged his plaid loose and then moved over his skin, touching him as she wished, reveling in the feel of skin on skin, marveling at the difference that desire wrought upon them, his body becoming more hard and powerful, hers softer and yielding.

  Malcolm watched her exploration, memorizing her expressions as he created a perfect memory, painting the moment with all its glorious emotional colors in the most personal corner of his mind. Her blushing skin, her golden hair spread in a wild halo, her eyes beckoning without shyness; all this went into memory’s portrait where it might be treasured in t
he days to come.

  He cupped her chin and said softly: “Ye’ll never ken, lass, what delight ye have brought me. Ye’ve pulled me away from blackest despair.”

  “I know what you mean to me,” she answered softly. “I think I can guess how you might feel.”

  “I pray that I have brought ye joy in equal measure, wife, but doubt o’ it being possible.”

  He kissed her then without circumspection, allowing need to overtake him and desire to ride him straight to its coveted end.

  Taffy lifted her arms and wrapped him tight. Her legs she wound about him, too. She could move but little, but she could feel—and did, with every bit of delicate flesh that touched Malcolm’s own. The friction made her squirm and arch. His lips upon her neck and then her ears were nearly scorching. The path of kisses sent her nerves dancing.

  She squirmed and arched and even pleaded, but still Malcolm would not give her what she needed.

  “Malcolm!” she groaned, beginning to tremble. Her body knew an actual ache and her loins yearned to clasp about him. “You are a heartless—”

  Another kiss silenced her complaint. A last move of hips saw them finally joined. She gloried as he moved against her with telling urgency, the hard stone of their marriage bed completely forgotten.

  Finally, there came the splintering of mind and body and the shower of sparks rained down upon her.

  Malcolm went into the fire then, too. He released his own pleasure with a hoarse shout that was more elemental in tone than the music of his normal voice, and partially collapsed upon her.

  “Sleep, love,” she said softly, touching his hair. “I will watch for us.”

  Malcolm rolled to his side, and pulling his plaid over them, obeyed her command.

  Taffy turned her face away from the growing light and watched the shadows of wind-swept trees outside the cave dance upon the wall.

  Nightfall saw them traversing the wildest tract of pathless moor. Malcolm had begun the evening in a cheerful mood, whistling a traditional pibroch while they bathed and he belted his plaid. But as they went into the world and the new moon wheeled overhead and began its descent into the day, he became quiet.

  Taffy, too, felt uneasy. Small whispers of energy passed repeatedly over her skin, soft and unpleasant as dewy cobwebs on the face. But though she looked, she saw no sign that the still-folk were near. For once, no storm clouded the sky. There was no shadow stalking them. The plants behaved as they should, and they even disturbed a flock of doves who were nesting in a gnarled oak tree. Everything looked normal, peaceful even.

  But Smokey and Malcolm were again moving like beasts of the hunt, quartering back and forth across the trail, so she did not attempt to lull herself into a tranquil, inattentive state.

  Dawn brought them without mishap to yet another cave, but unlike the others where they had passed their days, Taffy felt a fierce aversion to entering the new shelter’s large interior.

  “It isn’t a faerie cave, is it?” she whispered.

  “It was. Something grievous has happened within it.” He closed his eyes and began some inner communion. After a time, his eyes reopened and he shrugged. “I cannae feel that there is any present danger. Do ye wish tae go on a bit?”

  Taffy considered the suggestion. A part of her wanted to do just that, but she was hungry and tired after her night of missed sleep. And a quick look inside the deep cavern did not suggest that there was anything physically threatening within its stone belly. There was simply an unpleasant atmosphere radiating from the cave’s black mouth, which could well be caused by her new sensitivity to some previous visitor’s upsetting the faerie spells that guarded it.

  “No, let’s rest here. There is no guarantee that there will be better shelter and it is getting light.”

  “Aye. Well, then, I think I must walk a deasil and make the place fit for the still folk to again inhabit. Else it shall be a long and unpleasant night.” So saying, he stepped into the cave and circled it thrice around, whistling some eerie, if not quite musical, tune as he did so.

  With each pass by the cave’s mouth, the atmosphere within grew clearer, until with the third turn, the worst of the unpleasantness had dissipated.

  Taffy and Smokey entered eagerly then. The sun had crested the hills, and they knew that just as they were favored by night, the daytime belonged to their foes—Campbells and Covenanters and human carnivores of every stripe.

  They settled into rest, but though Taffy was very tired, her sleep was troubled first by evil dreams where she and Malcolm were pursued by a faceless, relentless evil. She woke, only to find a peculiar and realistic vision of a long, black crack opening in the back of their cave.

  Taffy stared at it, horrified. Inch by inch, the opening grew, silently—and there were many pairs of eyes peering out at them from the black beyond.

  Malcolm! Where was he?

  It took a mighty effort, but she moved her head, inch by inch, until she could see him sitting with Smokey near the mouth of the cave. He stood with her rifle in hand, his head cocked at a listening angle as he stared out into the bright outside.

  Taffy tried to speak, tried to waken herself that she might give warning that someone was coming—and not from outside the cave but from within—but a strange stillness had settled over her, paralyzing her limbs and voice. It was a magic more powerful than she had ever encountered or imagined.

  “Waken, lass! We are attacked!” she heard Malcolm shout, as he raised the rifle and fired out into the brightness outside the cave.

  His words and the rifle’s loud report freed her of the dream paralysis, and she rolled to her knees, prepared to rush to Malcolm’s side. But in that moment, several tall, lean bodies swarmed inside the cave through the crack in the back wall and leaned down over her, grabbing her arms with long, white hands.

  “Malcolm!” she screamed, trying to reach for the rowan thorn jammed into her collar, but there were too many hands upon her. They were not cruel grips that held her, but they were relentless as they dragged her toward the ominous black crevice at the rear of the cavern.

  She saw Malcolm turn and raise the rifle in their direction, but he hesitated to fire, and then it was too late.

  “Taffy!” he shouted, his eyes wild, leaping toward her. But behind him came two soldiers, and then four, iron swords in hand. They were checked a moment by the cave’s darkness, which was as muffling as any blindfold to human eyes, and that allowed Malcolm to gain another leaping pace away from them.

  “Malcolm!” Taffy strained with every fiber in every sinew, but she couldn’t break the hold upon her limbs. How had these Campbells found them? Had the still-folk led them here to serve as a diversion for when they meant to steal her away?

  “Lass!”

  Taffy saw half the still-folk who had come for her turn about and drop to the floor on bended knee. Their long white hands slapped down upon the stone in front of Malcolm, and before the echo had reached the ceiling, another giant crack had opened in the floor.

  As though overpowered by the sudden blows, the ground canted crazily and Malcolm and the soldiers—and even the still-folk who had kneeled to open the ground—tumbled into the black crevasse that tore the cave’s floor.

  Taffy saw one of the faeries catch Malcolm with his long, pale fingers hooked into a claw, and grab for purchase on the stony ledge. For a moment the two clung, hanging at the edge of the deep pit by the strength of that one pale fist.

  The still folk who had her shackled paused for a moment, as though considering whether to rush to their comrade’s aid and risk her escape.

  Malcolm looked past his rescuer and up to Taffy’s face. His eyes were wide and black as he addressed her.

  “Be strong, lass,” he said, the voice in her ear implacable. “Donnae give in tae fear. Ye must keep yourself whole, yer thoughts strong, so I may find ye again.“

  “Malcolm!” she cried, unable to obey, her fear a sickness spreading through her heart like freezing water that replaced her own blo
od. “Don’t let go!”

  The floor shifted again. A panicked wail filled the air as several soldiers plummeted further down into the depths of the crevasse, and the terrified echos made the cave tremble.

  “Promise me, lass, that ye’ll be strong! That ye’ll not be magicked.”

  “Malcolm,” she whispered, too frightened of further shaking the collapsing cave to overcome the hands restraining her.

  “Promise me, lass! Ye must fight and live!”

  “Yes. If I can,” she answered. Then, fiercely to her captors: “Help them!”

  But before they could move, there was another deafening crack of breaking stone. The ledge gave way and the clinging faerie and Malcolm both disappeared into the same black maw that had swallowed the soldiers.

  Neither of them cried out.

  “Malcolm!” Taffy screamed with all the force in her lungs, as though her voice might defy cruel gravity and call him back to her.

  A horrible new howling tore the air of the cavern and a trembling, wild-eyed Smokey, spurred by his mistress’s thwarted will, leaped recklessly into the void after the piper.

  There came another abrupt silence, followed by more splintering of stone from overhead.

  “Nooooooo!” she screamed, as her captors caught her up and dragged her into the tunnel at a dead run that had her feet skimming over the ground.

  She was still screaming for Malcolm when the stone wall snapped shut behind her and the cave collapsed in upon itself.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ever after, Taffy’s memories of the period that followed her exodus from that cavern were nightmarish and hazy. After Malcolm had toppled into the abyss and his voiceless presence was abruptly ripped from her, she had passed from acute anxiety about his welfare into a furious hysteria where she wailed his name over and over. The sound of her voice was a violent concussion in the confined space of the tunnel into which they’d escaped, and it seemed to shake the walls around her, and loose a smell that was half earth and half living trees which had been sundered. The stink of bleeding sap prevailed.