There were three tents, the biggest for himself and Morrigan, the second for Diorbhail and Olivia, and lastly one for the three men, though they scoffed and said it would have to rain enough to raise the level of Loch Torridon to the summit of Beinn Alligin before they would use it.
The moon was rising by the time they left. Diorbhail was settling down for sleep with the baby, a lamp throwing her shadow onto the sides of the tent as she prepared for bed. Curran had even purchased a small cradle, though he wondered, as all this gear was unloaded from the ferry, what they would do when it came time to leave again. He couldn’t remember ever doing anything quite so impetuous— well, except for that day on the moor outside Stranraer. As if reading his thoughts, Morrigan slipped her hand into his and smiled, and everything fell into place. It had been a long time since she had responded to him so guilelessly, without another man lurking, shadowy and threatening, in her eyes.
The three ghillies, Tom, Dougal, and Zachary, thought a nighttime hike— especially with a woman— foolhardy, even dangerous. Each offered to come along, but Curran refused. “I know where I’m going,” he said. “It’s not far.”
They grudgingly acceded, though he couldn’t be absolutely sure one of them wouldn’t sneak along behind at a safe distance.
He took her east, over uneven, rocky terrain, then angled south, between two craggy hills, assisting her where it was slippery. The moon ascended, full and bright, helping them find their way. After a half-hour or so, they topped a barren rise and looked down. Below lay a lochan, a mere tarn really, nothing like grand Torridon. Curran, pleased to have found his objective so quickly, took Morrigan’s hand and they descended, sliding a bit on the loose rocks.
They circled around to the far side. “This is it,” he said. “The exact spot.”
She found an area of flattened stone near the water and sat, wrapping her arms around her knees, gazing at the opaque, motionless surface of the tarn.
He joined her, laughing. “You can’t resuscitate my dream by staring at it,” he said gently.
“Curran, don’t be sensible and dull. Don’t spoil the tale. I’ve never forgotten. Never.”
He put his arm around her shoulders. “It’s only my foreboding that makes me try,” he said, kissing her temple. “It was one thing, to be here alone. It’s quite another to be here, with you.”
* * * *
Morrigan rested her head on Curran’s shoulder as fog swirled. She saw her breath, and was glad for her jacket and gloves. Curran had brought a blanket; he draped it over them, cocooning them in shared warmth.
Above the impenetrable black horizon of enclosing mountains, stars glittered wildly. Morrigan listened, sure she would hear them, for all their shifting movement, but there was only silence.
She remembered how the mist crept through the window at Diorbhail’s bothy, how it had taken Curran’s shape. It seemed prophetic that here she was, again blanketed by mist, Curran warm against her.
He’d done this for no other reason than because she’d asked it of him. She turned into him and drew his mouth to hers. “Thank you,” she said.
It was the first time they’d been alone since Glenelg. Their kisses soon turned urgent, demanding. Neither spoke of tenderness and love, nor spoke at all, but for Morrigan at least, it didn’t matter.
Afterwards, when they returned from passion, Curran sat up and so did she, grateful to abandon the bed of unyielding rock. He draped his coat over her shoulders and held her, keeping her warm under the blanket and against his body.
It was hard to stay alert. She dozed off, again and again, starting awake each time, until, finally, Curran’s stroking made sleep impossible to combat.
* * * *
Will you come with me?
Curran stood beside the water, holding out his hand. The moonlight reflecting off his clothing created a halo, and flashed against the narrow band circling his head.
Behind him, a plank extended to the deck of a fantastical boat, the like of which she knew didn’t exist in Scotland or anywhere. It was crafted of pure white wood, and all around it water foamed as though the boat fought its anchor, impatient to be away. Into the prow was carved a full-breasted woman, who turned her head and gazed at them impassively.
Morrigan took one step, and another. She extended her hand, enthralled. But as her fingers touched his, she woke, jerking up from Curran’s lap with a startled intake of breath. He stroked her hair but didn’t look at her. He was staring at the tarn. Following his gaze, she gasped again. Three women were floating above the water, holding hands, engulfed in halos as the dream-Curran had been. The first had deep red hair; the second’s was white, like the moonlight shining upon it, and the third, black as the heavens. Their gowns were translucent, like pearls, and they wore silver crowns. All three gazed at Curran with clear, unwavering love.
Curran nodded towards the lady with the red hair. “That one is the gatekeeper. She led me into the palace. The woman in the middle cauterized my wounds and spoke to me of my quest.” He motioned towards the last, the one with black hair, and his voice roughened. “She was imprisoned by the lion.”
Morrigan had already recognized her. She stared, unable to breathe.
The black-haired woman glided towards them. Morrigan was startled to see her own birthmark on this phantom’s wrist as she lifted her hand. Will you come with me? the woman asked, though Morrigan didn’t see her lips move.
Morrigan felt Curran’s body straining. She sensed how strongly he wanted to go, how irresistible he found this being. She could hardly blame him. She, too, was compelled.
“Will they take us to the castle?” she asked, but the sound of her voice woke her. She was lying with her head in Curran’s lap, and he was looking down at her tenderly.
“Were you dreaming?” he asked.
It took a moment to return to the world, to Scotland, to the wee tarn in the cradle of the mountains, where there were no women, or boat, or youthful haloed god. “Aye,” she said, a catch in her voice.
* * * *
Curran had watched her as she slept. Her face glowed, not from moonlight but a haze of lavender, and, he’d swear, streaks of purest gold. He knew he must be imagining such a thing, but the colors remained, even after he rubbed his eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen the phenomenon. When it happened, there was an accompanying shiver, like the vibration that came of being too close to a lightning strike.
She sat up, drawing the blanket closer. “How long have I been asleep?”
“A few hours. I didn’t like to disturb you.” He stretched his legs, which had become painfully cramped.
“Did you sleep?” she asked.
“No. I’ve been watching the moon.”
“So you didn’t… see anything?”
He hesitated. He wanted to tell her how a woman formed in the mist and placed a cool, damp palm against his cheek. He wanted to tell her that this apparition spoke. I miss you, Menoetius. But he couldn’t repeat such a thing to his wife. He couldn’t expect her to understand the grief and longing that welled through him, or how he knew the apparition and Morrigan were, somehow, the same person. She would be hurt by his overwhelming impulse to rise, fling off his clothes, and dive into the tarn.
So he only said, “The mist takes on shapes, much like clouds.” He shrugged. “Nothing in particular.”
She frowned. “I wish I hadn’t fallen asleep. But I did dream. There were three women standing upon the water, and I-I knew them, as if they were my sisters. No, more than that. Other sides of me.” She stood, wrapping the blanket around her like a robe, and walked so close to the water’s edge that the toes of her boots were submerged. “There was a boat. A live, living boat. I wanted so much to get on it. It wanted to take me somewhere I’ve always longed to go. And you, Curran….” She faced him. “You were there, ready to board with me, ready and willing to take one last voyage. A final journey to finish it all.”
He stood and joined her at the water’s edge.
> “But what would be finished?” she asked, her voice muffled against him.
“It’s almost dawn. Let’s go back.” This place left him sad and anxious. Anything could happen here, of that he was certain. He rubbed her arms to get her blood moving. “I predict you’ll be starved by the time we reach camp. Tom’ll have to catch ten fish for you. Maybe twenty.”
“Oh, stop it,” she said, but laughed.
He took the blanket from her shoulders and tossed it to the ground. “I rather like you in nothing but my coat.”
She turned her face up for his kisses and wrapped her arms around his neck, which caused his coat to gape open. He slid his hands inside, around her waist. “You’re warm in here,” he said, pulling her close.
But time was passing, and this wasn’t getting her dressed. He positioned her chemise and laced her corset. Then he couldn’t resist lifting her hair to place a line of kisses under her ear and down her neck. She leaned against him. “Unlace it again,” she whispered, which, of course, he did.
* * * *
The sun was peeking above the reddish peak of Sgurr Ruadh when they returned to camp. Two of the ghillies had hiked over to Loch Damph and caught fifteen wild brown trout. The air was fragrant with the scent of frying fish. Diorbhail brought the baby, who grinned at the sight of her mother. Both appeared well rested, which was more than Curran could claim. Morrigan took Olivia and went off towards the water, Diorbhail trailing along, the two of them talking and laughing, thick as thieves, like always. The unplanned abandonment of Kilgarry seemed to agree with Diorbhail, and Olivia. Watching them, Curran’s guilt lessened; for the first time, he wondered if the oppression he’d begun to feel there had filtered into them as well.
This sense of freedom was bittersweet. It had always been Kilgarry where he was happiest, in control of his life and destiny. Now it appeared he could only recapture that bliss by leaving Kilgarry behind.
I never want this to end, he thought as he watched the two women and his child cavorting beside the loch, and smelled the mouth-watering aroma of frying fish over an open fire. But what did that mean? That they would gad about Scotland like gypsies for the rest of their lives? He couldn’t do that. His tenants at Glenelg relied upon him to make decisions about the land. His business partners in Glasgow needed him as well. His child must be educated. He had obligations.
So, grudgingly, he approached the ghillies after they’d breakfasted and asked them how they might make arrangements to leave Torridon.
* * * *
Curran and Morrigan, with Olivia in tow, walked over to Loch Damph.
Olivia was fussy. Morrigan opened her blouse, unfastened the top clasps on the corset, and nursed her child.
She wore no hat. The sunlight glanced against her hair, causing strands of auburn to glint and dazzle. Part of a poem by Wordsworth came to Curran unbidden:
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment’s ornament.
The composition he’d once considered boringly sentimental suddenly seemed resplendent. Why did he feel he’d loved this woman for as long as clouds had formed in the sky? That he could lose everything without regret if he could keep her? Nothing else mattered in the end, not Kilgarry, not his livelihood. Nothing.
…All things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
It was a fair description. Crimsons, greens, bronzes. Dawn colors mixed on an artist’s palette to create a masterpiece.
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
For as long as he drew breath, he would remember this moment, on this morning, at the edge of a deep blue loch.
A trout leaped and splashed. “It’s a fine morning,” he said.
Gently rocking the wean, Morrigan asked, “Which is real?”
He met her gaze. “What?”
“Our world, or the one in there?” She nodded at the water. “The one with the lion you fought?”
“Oh.” Half-unconsciously, he traced the scar by his eye.
“Look. There we are, in the water. Are they real? Are we the reflections? Do they laugh, weep, and love? Are their lives like ours, or different?”
“We’re real.” The wind had pulled some hair loose from the knot at her neck. He tucked it behind her ear.
“How can you be sure?”
“They’re only there when we’re here.”
“You don’t know that. When you’re not here, how do you know what’s in the water? You can’t. Maybe they imagine us. Maybe they’re living their lives, and that’s where our dreams come from.”
“These are deep thoughts.”
“You told me you weren’t sure that what happened to you was a dream. What if, in every pool of water, there’s a castle. Lions. Women so bonny they must be divine.” She paused. “Have I ever told you about Diorbhail’s life in Stranraer?”
“Just that she lost her child.”
“She had no husband, and so she was persecuted. Boys threw rocks and shouted hateful things at her. Awful things. No woman would speak to her. She was reviled by the entire town.”
He blinked, and again saw Father Drummond’s face. Had Morrigan only married him to escape Diorbhail’s fate?
And Diorbhail. The thought of her being pummeled with rocks sent fury boiling through him. He wanted to line up her tormenters and throw stones at them.
“Once she approached me.” Morrigan smiled as she stroked Olivia’s curls. “All I could think of was how much trouble I’d be in if Beatrice or Papa found out I’d talked to the local whore. She said something I’ve never forgotten.”
“What was it?” he asked, when she didn’t continue.
“She said men fear the shadows women throw. She said that’s why they submerged us.” Her expression grew pensive as she stared at the water. “D’you think that’s where women’s souls are? Shadows trapped in nets, deep in the water where they cannot cause problems?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You’ve caused me a problem or two. Maybe we forgot to trap yours. Maybe you trapped mine instead.”
“Did I?” She regarded him somberly. “I wish—”
“What?”
“We didn’t trap each other. I wish we, all of us, could escape our shadows and become real.”
They were quiet. Curran threw a pebble and watched the ripples spread. “Had you been a man,” he said, “you could’ve been a philosopher.”
“But because I have a womb, I can never be more than this.” She tilted her chin towards Olivia. “Perhaps,” she said, “I’m beginning to understand.”
“Aye?” The slight upward curve of her lips made him stupid. He spoke without thinking, not knowing from where the words came. “That men’s achievements are nothing in comparison?”
She met his gaze and leaned closer.
He put his arm around her shoulders. She nestled willingly, the old Morrigan returned, if only for a moment.
He cleared his throat, yet still heard subtle unevenness as he said, “Where to next? It’s your turn.”
She tilted her head inquiringly.
“I don’t want to go home,” he said. “Do you?”
“No,” she said after a moment. “My turn?”
“Aye. Pick a place. Anyplace.”
She thought awhile as she dropped stones into the water. Finally, she met his gaze and said, “Cape Wrath.”
He started to ask her why but decided against it, not wanting her to feel as though she needed to justify her choice. “Cape Wrath,” he said, and nodded. “We’ll leave first thing in the morning— if the ghillies can find us a boat.”
CHAPTER TWO
MORRIGAN STOOD ON the high cliffs, fighting to keep her balance in a powerful wind.
Eamhair was her name.
She made out a few lines in the grass, darker green tracings, perhaps all that remained of the ancient stronghold Aodhàn had described. The lighthouse behind her could have been built right over Eamhair’s home, interrin
g her voice, and the voice of her lover.
He was born of the night, and the long secret hours lasses spend alone in their beds.
The tale passed through her memory like a physical caress. I am yours and you are mine. Would you see me wed to another?
Drops of rain splattered her face, or perhaps it was seawater, flung on the wind. The land dropped away at her feet, so sheer it caused hints of vertigo.
She found land’s edge, where mist washed the precipices and salt surf eroded the cliffs.
Eamhair’s presence merged with her, placing insubstantial hands on her shoulders. Where had she chosen to jump when she’d tried to kill herself? Morrigan needed to know. She walked back and forth, certain some inner sense would alert her when she found it. There were so many jagged boulders below. Yet Eamhair had found a place that wouldn’t crush her.
Hadn’t Mackinnon said the seal-lover carried Eamhair out of the sea and placed her on sand? There was no beach that she could see. No sand. Nothing but granite, pointed rocks, and restless tides.
It was a story. Something he made up. There are no selkies. She doused the tale with a frigid downpour of logic. This proves it. There is no sand, and nowhere to jump where she wouldn’t have been shattered on the rocks.
Morrigan gazed at the enormous, heavy swells. No place to launch a currach, either.
Mackinnon had beguiled her with a faery tale. She wished now she hadn’t chosen Cape Wrath as their next destination. The chronicle of Eamhair and her wraith-like lover could have lived on, untarnished, unchallenged. Now it was ruined.
Her thoughts were in such turmoil that she didn’t hear Diorbhail until the woman was nearly upon her. With one shrewd glance into Morrigan’s face, Diorbhail clasped her hand and held it without speaking until Morrigan could breathe again, could return from disappointment and mangled illusions.
“Why d’you stand here, looking as though you’ve lost your only friend?” Diorbhail asked.
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 59
