Along came the old town of Inverness and the green, fertile field of Culloden where so many brave champions lay buried. She flew across the sea, coming in due course to the iridescent Mediterranean, and an island. Once upon a time, she’d heard, this was where the moon lived when it left the heavens. All praised an Immortal Mother and oracles made prophecy to the dangerous roar of bulls. Here it was that Ariadne fell in love with golden, green-eyed Theseus. In this magical, forgotten place, women lived freely, powerfully, and were never punished or made to suffer for loving.
The eagle yipped repeatedly the closer she came to the island.
Clouds of dust drew Morrigan to the northern coast. Below her a bloody warrior supported a wisp of a girl on his arm. Hundreds of triumphant fighters, male and female, were lifting swords and cheering.
Kaphtor’s great hero! the crowd shouted.
One man would never again wield a weapon. His severed head was shoved onto the end of a spear. Other foes lay strewn like trampled seaweed across the sand.
Held securely against the prince’s sturdy shoulder, the woman smiled and wept.
Though Morrigan had never before envisioned this odd scenario, her fingers didn’t pause. She knew the music well enough to perform it in her sleep.
The warrior was the man from her dreams, Theseus, and the woman he held must be the queen, Aridela. She had fought alongside her companions and was wounded, yet she ignored the pain and participated in her people’s victory.
Such a woman could never be defeated.
It is truth, my daughter. You will rise and rise again, until Earth is redeemed.
Morrigan wasn’t alarmed by the gentle voice. She accepted that the eagle had found a way to communicate.
With a farewell nod, Morrigan returned to Scotland, sweeping above white-blue clouds in a loose fitting garment that rippled and flowed. The eagle left her as she drew near to the town at the foot of Loch Ryan. Down she circled over windy moorland to a stretch of sand by the water, where a snowy seal pup with large melting eyes sat quiet and dear as she stroked its soft head.
Applause startled her out of her illusion, back into the inn’s cramped parlor.
* * * *
With harvest upon them, Douglas left every morning before breakfast and didn’t return until after Morrigan had gone to bed. In his stubborn way he’d refused to hire any help, so it wasn’t surprising that she seldom saw him.
Strange, persistent aches tormented her. The slightest rubbing of her shift against her breasts was difficult to bear. Perhaps her body was rebelling at the loss of Curran’s lovemaking. Though he’d seemed to receive more enjoyment from it than she did, still, each night, she wanted the things he’d done, especially the kissing, and his warm hands holding her. No wonder folk were told to wait until after the marriage vows. Once a couple experienced such intimate delights, they’d want to again, wouldn’t they, and again… and again? What a convenience to have lovers in their beds every night and the approval of religion and law.
Another letter arrived from Curran. His aunt had died. He would return after the funeral and oh, his letter said, like an afterthought— Tha gaol agam ort, Morrigan Lawton. She stared at the words, wondering whom she could ask to decipher them, but then, when she turned the paper over, she saw he’d added, It means I’m in love with you.
She gave the crisp stationery a kiss and slipped it into the commode beneath her drawers and petticoats, secret and safe.
That night she dreamed again of Theseus, but this time he didn’t resemble either the blond warrior or Curran. Nevertheless, she knew him.
He was grimly striking rather than handsome, pale and dark at the same time, familiar in a way that made her want to weep. She saw his mouth move. At first she couldn’t hear what he was saying, but gradually it came to her, a dusty, distantly echoing, anguished cry. Where are you? I’ve waited so long. I need you. I need you!
The words faded when she woke, but for a long while the anguish remained, a faint unceasing reverberation she didn’t want to let go.
* * * *
One of Morrigan’s small joys was tending the vegetables that would help feed their guests through the winter. A brief uncomfortable memory intruded when she dug out a clump of weeds from the damp soil. Her body covered with mud… the amoral inner lass giggling, Douglas beating Nicky. Everything had changed that day.
She didn’t hear the boy come up behind her. He spoke politely and she turned, wiping her hands, to take the telegram he held out. She fetched him a coin kept for such things and watched him race to the road. He swung onto his pony and sent it galloping, his brown hair flowing in a breeze of his own creation.
Someone had scrawled her father’s name on the envelope. There wasn’t much use writing to Papa, as he’d never learned to read. She carried it inside, not knowing what else to do.
“Come with me,” Beatrice said. “We’ll take it to him.”
“Is it important?”
“We’ll not know until you’ve read it to us, will we?” Almost to herself, she added, “Though I’ve never yet seen a telegram that brought good news.”
Beatrice’s foreboding enfolded Morrigan as they walked through the fields. When they saw Douglas, Beatrice called and waved.
Sweat trickled down his temples. His sark was stained with dirt. He gave Morrigan a curt nod, indicating she should open the missive.
She tore the envelope and strained to read the splotched, uneven writing.
Deeply regret to inform you that Nicholas Lawton passed away third of August. Arrangements Proceeding. Contact Captain Marshall, Edinburgh Ferry Road.
Morrigan stumbled over Deepest Condolences, at the end.
It didn’t say how. Though she turned the paper over, there was no other explanation.
Beatrice’s face crumpled. Her mouth opened in a silent cry.
Douglas would call this daftness. He’d rip the note to bits. Nicky would write to inform them of his latest adventure.
But her father said nothing. When Beatrice tried to embrace him, he jerked away, grimacing.
Nicky… dead.
“It’s a mistake,” she said, hearing an odd ringing in her ears. The sough of barley grew as loud as thunder.
No one answered. Beatrice stepped away from Douglas and wiped her eyes. Everyone had loved Nicky, the poet with a flashing smile and far-seeing eyes.
Douglas squinted across the fields, his jaw working.
“Papa?” Morrigan asked.
He swung his head towards her, glowering like a bull preparing to charge. For one long instant he stared at her, eyes narrowed; then he strode away, yanking Leo’s halter.
“Why d’you never shed a tear over anything?” Beatrice shouted. “You’re indifferent… fair heartless, I suspect. Do you no’ care that your brother’s dead?” She dabbed at her eyes with the ever-present dishcloth.
Not a word to Papa, and was he weeping? “Who d’you think taught me never to greet?”
She ran away, through the amber fields and into her forest. Throughout the rest of the day she hid in dense green chambers walled by branches and leaves.
Nicky had painted vibrant images with words, delicate watercolors and robust oils. They were etched into her memories, and thickly populated with unicorns. They’re the happiness that just escapes us, he’d told her. Though fools try to rope them, unicorns can never be captured. They scatter and dissolve, fade into wind over the moor.
Now he, too, ran swift and free with his horned companions across invisible open moorland.
First he’d left, now he’d died. Wherever he was, she hated him for stealing himself from her. He’d been her one bastion. Now there was nothing— only empty air, a sense of falling.
Wind fluttered among the high branches, knocking leaves loose. They fell, pattering like raindrops. I wish it had been you, her father’s wordless stare had shouted.
Why hadn’t she felt her brother’s death? How could it have happened without her knowing?
She d
ug in the soil, unearthing pebbles and tossing them into the pool. Gradually, sensation returned, bringing the ache in her breasts, the nausea. She was still alive, not rotting. Not like Nicky.
Night had fallen when she at last left the forest for an open meadow, where moonlight spilled white and thick, as though a pitcher of cream had been overturned. Morrigan wasn’t startled when a unicorn stepped from the shadows. Streaked with alabaster, lean and graceful, it paused to test the air for danger. Two smaller forms stumbled into view, and she realized she hadn’t been given a glimpse of magic after all. It was simply a roe deer and her fawns. Mother nosed her hungry offspring away.
An owl swooped, calling whoo, whoo, as it landed on the stone wall. Morrigan held her breath, remembering that in some countries, owls carried spirits of the dead with them.
“Nicky?”
Its enormous round eyes rested upon her as it ruffled its wings. After a moment it glided away, selfishly keeping whatever secrets it held in confidence.
She slipped through the gate into the close. The kitchen door squeaked and a peewit twittered in reply.
The pale, pockmarked moon hung right outside her window. White light turned her blanket to sea-foam. “Bring me visions,” she prayed. “Share what you know.”
Slipping under her bedclothes, she watched the moon and it watched her.
A dark figure separated from the shadows and crept into bed with her.
Nicky, you’re so cold.
I suppose it was a mistake to be born. I’ve never felt a thing but want and rage. Who knows? Maybe I put myself in his way on purpose. Life’s dreary, and I didn’t want to see my wean’s face when I hit it.
You wouldn’t’ve done that!
Oh, who knows? I felt it in me, the violence. It strangled me sometimes fighting to come out. You’ve fought it. I know.
Never! I’ll kill anyone who tries to harm my weans….
I thought that too, but I couldn’t be sure. Listen. Mind you the poem I taught you. ‘One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.’ Always mind it if you think of me.
Morrigan slept late in the morning, haunted by images of Nicky, of fears, promises and poems, of two warriors, one dark, one gold, and mystifying words. Death cannot stop the thinara king. He will slay me until time wears out.
Not even the train’s piercing whistle managed to wake her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CURRAN DRUMMED HIS fingers against his thigh as he stared out the window at blurred scenery. The rhythmic cli-clung cli-clung of the wheels transformed into the girl’s voice. Cur-ran… Cur-ran. I fancy a stroll on the moor, Mr. Ramsay.
“I won’t let her go.” He would never have realized he’d said it out loud but for the gentleman in the other seat glancing at him then giving his newspaper a snap to show he wouldn’t tolerate any unorthodox behavior.
Curran rubbed his left temple. A headache drove stakes of pain underneath the scar.
Dogs and horses, crofting, traveling, shipbuilding… many interests kept him busy and he’d managed, thus far, to avoid female entanglements.
Why should I exchange one gaoler for another? she’d asked, displaying a too-jaded outlook for one so young.
No matter. He would have her, by God, one way or another. Even if he had to abduct her, like Paris and Helen, or Theseus and Ariadne, to coin her pet myth— she was devilishly intelligent. And he’d show her how pleasant certain prisons could be.
His thoughts circled. Was he considering marriage? To an innkeeper’s daughter? A lowborn, displaced, penniless survivor of the Glenelg clearings? Was he ready to discard his plan of an heiress born into deeply moneyed pockets, someone not too unpleasant to look at, who could further his efforts to bring prosperity to his village? He pictured a few of the ladies he knew, those who had made their willingness clear. But no matter how beautiful or wealthy they were, he’d never been able to take that final step.
Curse it. Curse the damned dowries and titles. If he could have Morrigan, they didn’t matter. He’d find some other way to finance his Highland estate.
Plan who you wed like a business venture, his father had instructed. Believe me, son, if she provides enough silver, you’ll find you can live with a stoat. And if you can no’ bring yourself to bed her… well, there’s plenty of bonny lasses who’ll ease that ache, for you’ve your mam’s pretty face, and it’s a proven fact women are weak-willed.
What would Thomas Ramsay say if he could see his beloved son so stupefied that he heard his lover’s voice in the clatter of the rails?
When the train drew at last to a screeching halt in Stranraer’s terminal, Curran immediately purchased a massive cluster of flowers from a canny street urchin who extorted twice their value. He tossed the grimy lad a few extra pennies and felt curiously rewarded by the grin he received.
It felt good to be here… at last. He inspected what he’d bought. Simpler than his last bouquet, it contained only red roses, woodbine, and baby’s breath. He didn’t know what meaning the woodbine carried— the woman who helped him last time had known everything about flowers, and had enjoyed a good laugh over his determination to create a bouquet with both the perfect meaning and beauty— but he knew red roses implied passion, and the scent of the woodbine was intoxicating.
He walked to the inn, only half noting how empty the lane was. When he opened the door, the bell jangled. Quickly he reached up and muffled it, giving in to a desire to surprise her.
What was this odd silence? He ventured along the corridor, glancing into the parlor, taproom, and kitchen. All stood empty. Pausing at the bottom of the staircase, he wondered how badly he’d be flouting etiquette if he ascended.
Bother. Where could she be? The grandfather clock in the parlor sounded the half-hour as he climbed the stairs.
Closed doors lined either side of the hall, but he remembered her room from the night he’d carried her there, limp and pale after the fight with her aunt. He hoped she didn’t possess a sickly disposition. Then he remembered the energy she’d displayed during their intimate afternoon, and told himself Morrigan Lawton had never known a day of illness in her life.
The door swung open at his hesitant push. His paramour lay on the bed, tangled in coarse sheets, her braid stretched across the pillow. After cautious admiration of the naked ankle and foot peeking out from the edge of the bedclothes, he snapped open his pocket watch. Nine thirty-two. Why was she asleep? Where were Beatrice and Douglas? With a glance down the hallway, he entered, laid the flowers on the bed, and bent over her.
“Morrigan.” He kissed her ear and twined the plait around his fingers. The girl damn well stole his reason. It had to be more than lying with her. He hadn’t had much trouble enjoying female companionship since the age of fourteen, when a crofter’s daughter from the next parish had lured him into an abandoned blackhouse.
No female could spellbind him because of one afternoon of simple pleasure. Spellbind. Interesting choice of words. It revived an old memory of gossip he’d overheard as a young lad. There had been tales of Morrigan’s dead mother. Mention of Hannah never failed to bring on dour headshakings and a heartfelt tisk or two.
Witch, some had declared, crossing themselves. Fionna Dunbar had stated that Hannah held a strange power over men, and could make them do almost anything for a chance of winning her favor.
Too bonny for her own good, he remembered Fionna saying. Shameless, through and through.
Satan took her home, someone else had ventured.
Curran slipped the tie from the end of Morrigan’s braid and unraveled her hair. It sprang to life, full of waves, undulating like sand dunes on the Sahara. Today it was as dark as coffee, but the day they’d spent together on the moor it had displayed seductive glints of red, like slow-burning embers, and had felt warm, sumptuous, in his hands.
Perhaps Hannah’s daughter had cast a spell on him.
His old friend, Seaghan MacAnaugh, remained unmarried to this day, rumor claimed because he hadn’t forgotten Hannah Stew
art or recovered from their broken engagement. Curran never asked and Seaghan never broached the subject, but every month since the man had returned to Glenelg, flowers appeared on the gravestone of the woman who had given birth to this enchanting creature.
Had Morrigan’s mother performed witchcraft? Had she been as beautiful as the rumors claimed?
Time had no doubt enhanced everyone’s memories. After all, how bonny could Hannah have been, judging from her sister, Beatrice?
Besides, he didn’t believe in witches, spells, or Satan, though he was careful not to offend folk by admitting it. Religion seemed more a business of power and practicality than anything else.
But if not Hannah, whom did Morrigan resemble? Not her father, him with his silver-smudged black hair and frigid grey eyes, while every inch of his daughter exuded warmth, from her hair that turned incandescent in the sun to the tentative smile he’d swear could revive the heart of a drowned sailor.
She seemed a charming potpourri of women combined into one. There was the first he’d seen, when Ibby brought him to the Wren’s Egg in May. The windblown, sea-scented, scarlet-cheeked moor lass, with damp untidy hair and burrs on her skirts. That rustic girl disappeared into the cool, corseted lady in prim grey who’d later brought him a basket of food. Before he’d finished absorbing those two faces, another had appeared. The flushed seductress, giving off a delectable essence of musk, speaking entreaties against his mouth.
That one sealed his doom. But which was the real Morrigan? Moor sprite? Proper lady? Temptress?
No. Something more than her face caused the torment he’d endured in Edinburgh. Something about Morrigan— did she have a middle name? He longed to know— tore him apart even as it soothed him into a tranquility he’d never before experienced.
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 15
