A hand squeezed her shoulder, bringing her around with a stifled shriek. “Thought you had me, didn’t you?”
“Damn,” she said.
“Don’t you know by now you’ll never best me? You’re a female, cursed by God and nature. Sneaky, that’s what you are, just like your hair, until the sun comes out and reveals the truth. Lucky for you Scotland has many cloudy days.”
She couldn’t help it— she nudged her braid over her shoulder and out of sight almost guiltily.
Nicholas Lawton’s sardonic laughter echoed into the heavens. “No one with any wit is fooled,” he said. “Red hair on a lass is unlucky, and dark red’s the worst.”
Nicky never tired of these well-worn taunts. Having learned long ago that to argue only worsened things, Morrigan changed the subject. “Where were you?” She dropped her clumsy wooden sword on the ground, disgusted with it, herself, and most of all, her smug brother.
“Here… there… in the sky, the ground….” He poked her chest. “In your soul.” He hooked his thumbs under his braces, cocky as a Spanish matador, then plunged his own sword into the damp soil next to the boulder, where it stood, quivering like a naked girl.
Nicky polished his nails on the front of his grimy sark and threw out another round of derisive laughter. It echoed off cotton-wisp clouds and frightened a covey of partridges from their nests.
Goaded to fury, Morrigan bent and grabbed her sword. She thwacked at her brother, longing to rattle his unquenchable amusement, or at least inspire his respect, but he caught her around the waist, lifted her with no apparent effort, and, dodging the blade, tossed her into a patch of gorse.
She shrieked again.
He dusted his hands, planted them on his hips, and grinned. His teeth flashed briefly, framed as they were by ill-shaven cheeks covered in black stubble. “Mind what I tell you,” he said, shaking a finger before whistling at his horse. “The world’s designed for men, so you’re pretty much buggered.” He swung onto his nag and perused the sky.
A sharp throb diverted Morrigan’s attention as she untangled herself from the gorse. She knew what it was even before she looked. A thorn, embedded in her right index finger.
She pried it out, watching a crimson drop of blood balloon from the puncture.
When the gorse is not in flower, love is out of season. So the saying went.
Instead of calling him some name he would only laugh at, she heard herself say, “Is that the way of love then, bonny, sweet, yet ready to sting when you least expect?”
He looked puzzled until he saw the blood. “If you don’t get home to your chores, you’ll never have the chance to find out.” His ready grin held a hint of devilry, as though he half hoped she would defy their da and his temper.
“I’ll be back before the train comes. Stay, Nicky. I’ll read you the tale of the labyrinth, and the black Minotaur. There’s plenty of time.”
“Jesus, one of these days you’ll fancy yourself Helen of Troy and we’ll have to put you in an asylum.” He leaned towards her. “Truth is, your head is full of mince. You’re far more trouble than use.” He shrugged. “Don’t greet to me about your bruised backside. You make your own bad fortune like you cannot bear a day of peace.”
That was Nicky, always trying to protect her from their father’s wrath. But in the end, he never told her what to do. He let her make her own choices.
As he galloped away, Morrigan opened her satchel and pulled out her beloved, dog-eared book, A Translated Greek Mythology. She settled on the grassy slope overlooking Loch Ryan, glancing with appreciation at the water’s indigo surface. “In truth, I’d love a day of peace,” she said, studying the sky, where a rosy blush trellised the eastern horizon, sweet with promise. It couldn’t yet be seven. The first train, on the Port Road from Castle Douglas, didn’t arrive till eight-thirty. Papa was in his fields, where he went every morning before dawn. As long as she made it home before him, he would never know she’d left at all.
Widdie pricked her ears and nickered after Morrigan’s brother. The sound was half-wistful, and the way the mare swung her head around and stared at Morrigan suggested reproof. Oh, she was imagining too much again. A reproving horse? Nicky loved to claim pagan faery blood ran through his sister’s veins, and this was what caused folk to stare at her in confusion half the time, lifting their eyebrows and giving each other those I told you, didn’t I glances.
Sometimes it did feel like she’d come from the stars rather than the Highlands. Perhaps she suffered from insanity as Nicky often suggested… but she preferred to think herself possessed by magic spells.
Maybe Hannah Stewart Lawton had been in truth a faery, a changeling… a witch. That would explain Papa’s reasoning in never allowing anyone to speak of her, or of their old life in the North Country. Could she be living up there still, enchanting virile men in the forest, making them forget their pious Christian roots? Maybe, just maybe, the sorceress had managed to bequeath a few fey tricks to her daughter. Tricks the wild girl who lived inside Morrigan used often enough. That hidden, depraved lass caused nothing but trouble for hapless Morrigan, daring her to wile away hours on the cliffs and moor and goading her into flirting with the lads in town. The girl’s fierce voice proclaimed these rules and constraints no more than muck to be shoveled away. The two Morrigans battled incessantly, the secret one haranguing her to mischief, while the other, the outer Morrigan, longed to make everyone, especially Douglas, happy and proud.
Impossible task. No one could please him.
Morrigan opened the book and ran her fingers over the faded lettering. Papa’s sister, Isabel, had given it to her on her tenth birthday. The title page held a message, written in fine, trembly script.
Someone once called you the finest miracle I’ll ever see, and I’ve come to believe it. I was told yours is the name of a goddess, dear Morrigan. So here is a book about Greek gods and goddesses. Perhaps you will see yourself in these ancient tales.
Page sixty-seven, to which the book opened naturally, carried the chapter heading “Theseus and the Minotaur of Crete.” Though she’d read it hundreds of times, the names Theseus, Minotaur, and Crete still awakened a faint involuntary shiver.
Theseus was young, the account began, when shipped along with six other youths and seven maidens to the isle of Crete as slave-payment to King Minos. These doomed prisoners were to be fed to the gruesome Minotaur— half-man, half-bull, the product of an ungodly physical union between Minos’s wife, Pasiphaë, and a magnificent white bull sent by the god Poseidon.
Morrigan pictured the scene: lasses weeping as dark-skinned Cretan soldiers prodded them onto the vessel. Heroic Theseus, though, would never give in to such weakness.
Chewing on a fibrous stem of grass, she rested her head in the crook of one arm, hearing the enticing murmur of weeds. Stay… relax… dream. She closed her eyes and slipped into the old familiar fantasy of beloved Greek characters and their grand adventures.
The Athenian prince swaggered off the Cretan pier, not bothering to hide his contempt. Among those watching was Minos’s daughter, Princess Ariadne, who would soon fall in love with this barbarian from the northern lands. Could she help it, when moonlight and magic brought a god’s statue to life, transforming it into the foreigner’s likeness? As it crossed the clearing it changed from cold marble to living man, and this man lay upon her like a lover. For longer than you can imagine, he promised, I will be with you, in you, of you. Together we bring forth a new world, and nothing will ever part us. Aridela, open your heart.
Morrigan settled more comfortably into her grassy nest. The statue called the princess Aridela, not Ariadne. Yet Morrigan knew it was no mistake. Aridela was the older name, the origin from which transpired the fable of Ariadne. She also knew, though she couldn’t remember how, that Aridela’s father was listed in the oracle logs as Damasen, royal consort who met his death bravely, that her mother was Helice, renowned queen of Crete, and her sister the courageous Iphiboë.
Morrigan l
oved to pretend she was Aridela, her hair no longer giving hints of unlucky auburn highlights but black as night-sky, her eyes not brown but exotic ebony, lined with a substance that made them appear mysterious and seductive. As Aridela, she watched the marble statue transmute into a living being. How wonderful he felt, stone warming into smooth flesh against hers, breath ardent and sweet on her cheek. She would love him forever. For as long as wayfaring stars sailed the midnight sky.
For as long as the pyramids stand in Egypt.
Morrigan scrambled from her springy bed, blinking to clear her sight. The hillside was empty but for her pony and a foraging pair of linnets, which flew up, crying in alarm at the human’s sudden movement.
She must have fallen asleep and dreamed the words… but they’d sounded clear and close, as if a man spoke right next to her. Maybe the loch washing against the shore had done it. The sea could make uncanny sounds.
Reassured, she lay back in the grass and closed her eyes. It was a bonny saying. Aye, the princess would love her Theseus that long, maybe longer.
She sighed. Now she was in an arena. Hot sand burned the soles of her feet. Rising onto her toes, she ran, buoyed with the lightness of a butterfly, the swift danger of a wasp. The gate creaked behind her. A snort, heavy and challenging, was followed by the thud of massive hooves. Aridela! the people thundered.
She turned, laughing. The bull trotted into view. Her bull. It pawed the sand and lowered its head.
The crowd’s chants lengthened into a continuous roar as she ran towards her destiny, what her people called moera.
The bull’s breath heated her face then vanished as she soared, propelled by the upward jerk of his head. She turned a graceful somersault, losing herself in the rush of wind. Everything slowed. Cheers echoed, fading into an angry snort that reverberated through her eardrums. There was an instant of vertigo as the sky yawed below and sand stretched above. Then she righted herself, landing on the bull’s hindquarters, her toes searching for hold in its bristly hair. She made a quick, final leap into the arms of her primped and painted half brother, who placed her safely on the ground and made a grand flourish to impress the audience. What was his name? Isandros.
The cheering and foot-stomping intensified until she thought the bullring would collapse. Only her mother, the queen, refused to join in.
Aridela… Aridela… Daugh… terrrrr of the Calesssiennnda!
Morrigan started, blinking against bright light striking her full in the face. There it came again. Shrill, accusatory, the whistle shivered over the moor, announcing the train as it raced to Stranraer. She should be at the Wren’s Egg, helping Aunt Beatrice prepare breakfast. If hungry travelers came to the inn and she wasn’t there, her da would be furious.
But what did it matter? He was always furious, no matter what she did.
Widdie nuzzled her cheek with damp, grass-stained nostrils. “We’re late.” Morrigan rose, brushing at the weeds and thistle clinging to her wool skirt. The sky had gone as pale as a shallow bowl of water. Looking at it, she knew with a sinking sense of dread that she would be flayed livid.
She mounted her pony and headed for the inn on Neptune Street. Then she paused. She was already damned. Why not make a pleasant memory for later, after the thrashing?
Kicking the mare to a gallop, she careened along the ridge above the loch, pretending she and Theseus were escaping enemy soldiers, making for a ship that would carry them to a secret bothy on the hazy isle of Ailsa Craig, where none would ever find them.
“Hurry or they’ll catch us,” she cried, looking over her shoulder at imaginary pursuers.
A gust of wind tugged at her green velvet hat, the one Aunt Isabel had given her last November for her eighteenth birthday. It flew into the air, long plaid ribbons fluttering.
Morrigan pulled up the mare and jumped off, but the hat dropped away to Loch Ryan. It would be a dangerously slick climb to retrieve it.
“Feck! Damn this bloody wind!” If Aunt Beatrice heard her speak such language, she’d rip every last hair from her head and slap her raw, but Morrigan went on spouting the words she often heard her brother and his comrades use. That hat was her favorite.
There it lay, on a narrow stretch of beach, against a stone. A grey seal gave it a curious sniff before tidewater reached out, grabbed it, and dragged the wretched thing into the loch.
Premonition crawled through her spine. The seal gazed up at her.
Come to me.
Morrigan pivoted in a breathless circle. There was nothing but waving grass, gorse, and thistle.
I need you.
She closed her eyes, hard, and when she opened them, gasped at the shimmering, almost transparent image of a man standing where the seal had been. His white knee-length tunic, topped by a leather cuirass, fluttered at the hem. Sunlight glinted against the hilt of a sword at his waist. One hand rested on his chest, and waving golden hair framed an uncompromising, sun-bronzed face. He seemed to stare directly at her.
The sea claims final possession, and leaves nothing behind.
Morrigan clapped her hands over her ears, shut her eyes, and counted to ten. When she opened them, she saw nothing but bright sunlight and a network of spider web clouds. There was the seal, rubbing its nose with one flipper. Loch Ryan washed against the shore and a curlew called sadly. It was a typical country scene, no different from a hundred other mornings.
She’d heard no voice. Wind, swirling through weeds, had fooled her. As if in confirmation, the seal barked as seals do, not sounding remotely human, and slid into the sea.
For years Morrigan had wondered if other people dreamed like she did, of places, people, and events that often left her twisting in her bedclothes and waking in a sweat. She never asked, for she was too afraid of being locked away in some ghastly place with mad folk.
She’d heard those words before, but never so clearly. She’d dreamed of that man, too, with his long golden hair and green eyes. They could be pitiless or tender, depending on his mood. Theseus, she’d long ago started calling him: magnificent, larger-than-life barbarian from Greek fable. Whenever she experienced the dream, she longed for… something. Her arms felt empty. Her heart ached. She knew none of it was real, but the beloved dream gave comfort, something to wish for.
She could almost believe, though she’d never even been kissed, that out there in the enormous, fathomless world, love waited. Impatient, ardent love. It came from a honey-haired man, who searched for her, called to her, spoke to her deepest recesses. When, if, he found her, he would snatch her out of this unhappy life. He would give her a castle with turrets that punctured the clouds. She would be safe. He would banish the demons from her soul.
The sea had sucked away her hat, but Morrigan felt it would like to seize her as well, yank her into its abysmal, inscrutable reaches.
Come to me, her dream-lover urged. I’ve waited so long.
Oh, find me, her heart cried. I need you, too!
* * * *
Curran Ramsay stifled a sigh of boredom. How he’d managed to get roped into being Isabel MacLean’s traveling companion quite escaped him. Somehow she’d contrived it, the moment she’d glimpsed him yesterday at the Glasgow station and waved her handkerchief, screeching to draw his attention. He remembered having a fondness for her, and he hadn’t seen her in… well, he couldn’t remember the last time. He knew her husband had died. No doubt she was lonely. He should invite her to Kilgarry for a change of scene. But she never stopped talking, and this morning, he found listening to her with the required expression of interest almost too exhausting to bear.
If only they’d met some other day. He would have dealt with it in a much more gentlemanly fashion. Today, however, he was thickheaded, bleary after a night of disruptions, moments of rest interrupted by long stretches of a persistent dream, or nightmare. He’d spent most of the night tossing and turning, and had to lock his jaw to keep from yawning in her face.
He’d planned to hide behind a copy of the Dundee Courier and spen
d the journey dismembering the dream. It always began with a spiraling sensation, like he’d been pushed into a hole or over a cliff, and was falling end over end. Then he would see himself carrying a child up out of the ground, a young girl bleeding profusely from a wound in the stomach. The staircase seemed endless, the girl’s eyes huge in a pinched little face, and his feet were so heavy he could hardly lift them. He always kissed her forehead in an effort to reassure her, and to hide how terrified he was that she might expire in his arms. Sometimes the dream ended there as he hurtled out of sleep, gasping. Other times it continued, with him running into a large open space, being surrounded by men and women, all shouting in a language he couldn’t begin to understand. They’d rip the child from him and carry her away, leaving him trapped by soldiers, who held sharp blades against his throat.
That particular dream never went any farther. He never knew if the child lived or died. Maybe it was the not knowing that filled him with this awful sense of guilt.
“I sold the gown to the lady and she showed it to her kin and acquaintances. I have so many orders coming in I may have to hire an assistant. What d’you think of that, Mr. Ramsay?”
“What? Oh… aye, Mrs. Maclean, it’s bonny news. You’ll soon be designing ballgowns for the royal family.”
Her gaze narrowed, making him fear he’d said something wrong. “I swear you look as though you’ve lost your home and livelihood. Where is it you’re off to, again?”
With determined effort, he smiled. “Larne, Mrs. Maclean, to buy a puppy. The owner has promised to hold the best of the litter for me. And what of you? You said you’re traveling to Stranraer?”
As easily distracted as a two-year-old, she said, “Aye, to visit my brother, my nephew, and my niece. My brother is Douglas Lawton. He’s an innkeeper now, you might recall. Your papa arranged for the fee, mind?”
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 2
