by Allie Mackay
He did toss a glance and a wave to his friends who were lining the curtain walls, cheering and jabbing their swords in the air. Even Serafina was there, hanging on Saor MacSwain’s arm and waving a silk veil above her head. And – Mindy was amazed – the courtesan’s expression was soft, her eyes a bit misty. The woman’s eyes weren’t the only ones that glistened.
Bran’s Barrachs truly were giving her a grand homecoming.
Mindy swallowed and returned their smiles, once again feeling a need for her handkerchief.
Especially when she spotted a walking stick being thrust high in the air, right along with all the swords. She also heard a very distinctive whoop that could only be Silvanus.
“It can’t be…” She flashed a look at Bran, but he only shrugged.
“I told you I had a feeling we’d see them again. Unlike the rest of us, they’re still ghosties. They pop in now and then.” He leaned in and kissed her, swiftly this time. “You’ll understand none of my men mind their visits. There’s no one here afraid of ghosts!”
“You’re real again, truly?” Mindy blinked, dashed at her cheek. “Can it be?”
“This is my day, lass.” He flung out an arm, taking in his home, the tossing waters of the bay. He looked so handsome, so happy, she almost melted. “As I havenae yet left this earth, so to speak, I stand before you alive as aye.”
“But how-”
“Who is to say what can and cannae be?” He planted his hands on his hips and laughed heartily. “Much has happened since we were torn apart. I’ll tell you what I can o’er a grand celebratory feast this e’en. For the now, all that matters is that I have you back and that I love you with all my heart and soul. But” – his smile deepened – “I can see I’ll be needing to teach you about Highland magic.”
“I do believe.” She did – now.
“So do I, sweet.” He patted his sword hilt. “Scotland is a place full of wonder. And Barra…”
His chest swelled proudly. “Barra is Barra! There’s no finer isle in all the land, as I’ll soon be showing you when I take you round to see the other islands.” He pulled her close again, his blue gaze locking on hers. “My friends will be wanting to meet my new wife. And” – he kissed her nose – “I’m for making sure you feel proper awe for my bonnie Scotland!”
“I already do.” Mindy held him tightly, hardly seeing him for her tears. “I think I did that day on the ferry. I lost my heart to Scotland then. Most of all, to you.”
“That I know!” His grin turned wicked. “For truth, lass, how could you resist me? Now come here, and let me kiss you properly.”
And he did.
Again and again and again – until her toes curled.
Epilogue
Ye Olde Pagan Times
New Hope, Pennsylvania, Several Months Later
“Keep your eyes closed.” Madame Zelda’s soothing voice echoed through the quiet of the New Age shop’s darkened back room. Each softly spoken word settled onto Margo’s consciousness like one more gently weighted urge that should, but didn’t, send her spiraling into a relaxed state where she hoped to establish contact with her sister.
“Focus on your breathing.” The fortune teller was leaning over her. Margo could smell the other woman’s lemony perfume, the slight trace of onions from the hoagie she knew Madame Zelda had eaten for lunch. “Inhale deeply, then breathe out slowly, releasing all the tension and worry that’s troubling you.
“Feel peace and serenity surrounding you.” Madame Zelda had moved away, her voice was growing fainter. “Relax and let your mind drift. Imagine soothing hands stroking your forehead and your face, feel gentle fingers-”
“It’s not working.” Margo sat upright on the therapy couch, frowning.
She believed as firmly as anyone in the power of soul-ties and that no one is ever truly separated from those they love dearly.
A connection is always there.
At least, she was sure, through the unbreakable bonds of energy. Karmic threads that kept our many lives so tightly entwined with those destined to share our journey.
Even now, so long since Mindy’s inexplicable disappearance, Margo knew her sister was well.
She’d feel it if something bad had happened.
Instead, each time she thought of Mindy, she felt only a strong sense of joy and peace.
Her sister was alive and happy.
Certain of it, Margo couldn’t quite suppress a yawn. She considered lying back down. Madame Zelda had sworn she could reach Mindy and Margo was willing to try anything to know the truth.
But the pungent scent from eucalyptus aroma therapy oil was making her nose twitch. And no matter how hard she’d tried to breathe herself into a deep enough state to discover her sister’s whereabouts, her every attempt at going under proved an abysmal failure.
“You weren’t visualizing.” Madame Zelda smoothed her voluminous purple caftan. “You need to imagine a bright white light at the top of your head and then feel its warmth descending, slipping down through your body to-”
“I can’t be hypnotized.” Margo tucked her hair behind an ear, wishing she had the strength to jump to her feet and exit the room.
But she was so tired.
Her legs felt much too leaden to swing off the sofa. Even if she managed to stand, she doubted she could do so without swaying. Not that her exhaustion had anything to do with Madame Zelda’s attempts at trying to help her probe the cosmos for signs of Mindy.
She was just worn out from having to run Ye Olde Pagan Times these last few months, during Patience Peasgood’s unavoidable absence as she recovered from knee surgery.
Overtime hours and no sleep took a toll on everyone.
She deserved a rest.
So she allowed herself to flop back onto the sofa, secretly closing her ears to Madame Zelda’s soft, calming voice. She’d sleep just ten minutes and then she’d waken, refreshed and free of the aching tightness that seemed to sit fast between her shoulders in recent weeks.
Sleep was good.
Though her much deserved rest would be much more restorative if she didn’t sense Madame Zelda’s looming presence hovering over her, leaning close and peering at her.
Irritated, Margo opened her eyes to say so, but the sight before stole her speech.
Madame Zelda had grown a beard.
In fact, the face staring at her wasn’t the Puerto Rican woman’s at all.
It belonged to an aged, magnificently kilted Scotsman who now leapt back and made her a graciously formal bow. “I greet you, my lady.” His voice boomed as he straightened, the huge Celtic brooch pinning a swath of plaid to his shoulder, glinting brightly. “You may call me Silvanus.”
“Sil-…?” Margo blinked.
He had a beard that would put every shopping mall Santa to shame. The great sword strapped to his hip could only be a museum piece. And although he didn’t appear poised to draw the dangerous-looking blade, he was regarding her with a steely, determined gaze.
Margo pushed up on her elbows, sure she was dreaming.
“Where’s Marta-… I mean, Madame Zelda?” she asked anyway, glancing about.
The fortune teller was nowhere to be seen.
Silvanus – whoever he was - ignored her question and, with a grand flourish, plucked a small leather pouch from the air.
Margo stared, suspicious. “How did you do that?”
“Many years of practice!” He smiled, his eyes twinkling as if from a private joke.
Margo didn’t share his amusement.
There was something odd about him.
And if she wasnn’t sleeping, she needed to slip off the therapy couch and press the emergency alarm button hidden under a shelf near the door.
“I brought this from your sister.” The man’s words froze her just as she’d been about to push to her feet.
“Mindy?” Margo’s heart began to race.
“Herself, and no other.” He held out the packet, an old-fashioned sack made of oiled sheepskin
, Margo saw as she took it from him. “Though” – he cleared his throat – “I do think she’d meant for you to find this on your own. Someday, as it were.”
“Where is she?” This time Margo did jump up.
“Is she-” Her jaw slipped and the leather pouch almost dropped from her hands.
She was talking to air.
The kilted man was gone.
But she still held the oiled packet. Her entire body trembling, she sank onto the couch and began untying the brittle red ribbon that held the sheepskin together. She hadn’t noticed how fragile the ribbon was until she began plucking at it, causing it to crumble.
Oh, no...
The leather was disintegrating, too.
Not oiled at all, but cracked and dry, it was splitting apart in her hands. As was the folded piece of thick, yellowed parchment the pouch had held. But it wasn’t disappearing so quickly that she didn’t see her own name scrawled across the note in Mindy’s distinctive, looping handwriting.
“Oh, God!” Margo couldn’t breathe.
The world slammed to a halt and then started spinning, the dark little room whirling around her so fast, she grew dizzy.
Her hands shook as she unfolded the parchment. Her vision blurred, hot tears making it difficult to read the words swimming before her eyes.
Dearest Margo,
You were right – Scotland is magical. And if ever you read these lines, you’ll know that I am well and happier than I ever dreamed possible. You might remember the grand portrait of Bran of Barra, the fourteenth-century MacNeil chieftain who built the tower? If you do, you’ll know I was always drawn to his painting and now, thanks to a wonder I can’t begin to explain, I am with him in his time. We’ve wed and….
The note turned to dust, sifting through her fingers to the floor, before she could finish reading. Within the blink of an eye, her hands were empty. The parchment, the leather pouch, and its red drawstring ribbon, all vanished as if she’d only dreamed them.
But she knew she hadn’t.
Still…
It would have been so nice to have had something to keep with her. Something that would prove such a miracle was really true.
“Good goddess, what happened to Patience’s EMF meter?”
Madame Zelda stood in the doorway, her eyes round as she stared at Margo’s feet. “It looks like it’s been buried in a sewer!”
“Hah!” A second voice, deep and with a thick Scottish burr, came from outside the window. But when Margo flashed a glance that way, she didn’t see anyone.
She did look down at the carpet, her heart racing again when she recognized Patience Peasgood’s all-the-bells-whistles super-duper ghost detecting device.
It was the very one she’d leant to Mindy for her trip to Barra.
It must’ve fallen from the leather pouch when she’d untied the drawstring, the note distracting her. She reached for it, relief sweeping her as she closed her fingers around its solid mass. Blessedly, it didn’t begin to break apart in her hands.
But it was corroded.
Blackened with age, not muck as Madame Zelda erroneously guessed.
And Margo had never seen anything more beautiful.
***
A certain kilted Scotsman peering in through the window would have to disagree for he found her tremulous smile a much finer sight.
“I told you two loons she’d be wanting thon contraption!” His chest swelled as he turned to his friends. “We all knew the rest wouldn’t last long in her time. But that wee black box, now, it belongs in her day and so-”
“I knew that, too, you great lump!” Geordie poked him with his walking stick. “Why, it was me what suggested we bring it along. As I recall-”
“You’re both addled.” Roderick snorted. “The idea was mine and no one else’s.”
“Yours?” Silvanus’s brows shot up. “I needed all my powers o’ persuasion to get you to even come along.”
“With good reason, I’m thinking.” Roderick flipped back his plaid and glanced round, shuddering. “Have you forgotten how many centuries we spent in this place?”
“Hear, hear!” Geordie agreed heartily.
“It was a matter of honor.” Silvanus held his ground. “You saw how much the packet meant to the lassie.”
“Well, she has it now, so I’m for leaving.” Roderick folded his arms.
“And you?” Silvanus turned to Geordie.
The other ghost examined the end of his walking stick. “I am rather homesick, aye.”
“Then let us be away.” Silvanus clapped a hand on both their shoulders, knowing they’d instantly sift themselves back to Barra.
And they did, much to his relief.
He didn’t want them to see him take one last peek through the shop window. He’d once made a vow that he’d do a good turn for Mindy and now that he had, he wanted to make sure he hadn’t failed.
So he took a deep breath, put back his shoulders, and strode to window. He looked just in time to see Mindy’s sister reverently wrapping the little black box in a soft blue cloth.
She was still smiling.
When she pressed the cloth-wrapped box to her breast and sighed, looking most content, Silvanus knew that he, too, could go home.
But first he gave a little leap in the air.
It’d been a long time since he’d made a fetching lassie so happy. And it felt good.
Very good, indeed.
Author’s Footnote
There’s a passage in Some Like It Kilted that sums up why I love the book so much. It’s my belief that story comes from deep in the writer’s soul, dredged from a lifetime of experiences, likes and dislikes, even the author’s world view. It’s all there and observant readers can find it if they look carefully.
As proof, here’s a snippet from this book:
“Nearly a week later, Mindy stood outside the Anchor, hardly believing she’d survived so long in such complete, if glorious, isolation. It also surprised her that the charm of drearily wet days hadn’t faded. Barra’s cold, blustery clime continued to invigorate her. Even more amazing, she wasn’t missing the noisy hectic of her usual life.”
So many of my passions went into this story, including my love of wild places and wilder weather. The following are a few things I’d like to highlight.
Continental Airlines no longer has a Flight 16 from Newark to Glasgow. I left the reference as a nod to the many times I took this flight to Scotland. Whenever I did, the boarding gate always seemed to be C-127.
When Mindy arrives at Ravenscraig Castle, she’s greeted by the castle steward, Murdoch MacEwan. Murdoch’s character was loosely based on just such a castle steward who greeted me years ago on the steps of Craigievar Castle in Aberdeenshire. He was quite gallant and resplendent in full Highland regalia. For a moment, my friends and I thought we’d at last found time portal and had been whisked back to Scotland of old. Alas, that wasn’t so. But I did borrow the steward to create Murdoch, who you will always find at Ravenscraig, no matter which Allie Mackay book takes you there.
The MacDougall monument at Ravenscraig’s One Cairn Village was modeled after the beautiful Glencoe Monument at Glencoe Village. Erected in 1883 by Ellen Burns-Macdonald, a true descendant of the slaughtered MacIains of Glencoe (Glencoe Massacre, Feb. 12-13, 1692), the monument’s cairn is encircled by heather and topped with a tall Celtic cross. It is only a short walk outside the village and is a must-see for any visitor who loves Scottish history. Take a hankie if you go – it’s impossible to be there and not be deeply moved.
Mindy’s mishap with reaching the Oban ferry is my own. I’ve recounted the incident exactly as it happened – including the dreadful blocked roads and detours, the friendly old man and his dog, the car alarm, and the need for a dram once the nightmare was behind me. I hope Mindy didn’t mind going through it all. With Bran as a prize, she surely would agree it was a good trade!
As for Barra...
The Hebrides are known as ‘the Isles on the Edge of the
Sea’ and there are over 500 of them stretched along Scotland’s west coast. Wild, magnificent, and almost too beautiful to describe, they fire the imagination of the poetic, fill the dreams of Diaspora Scots, and steal the heart of anyone who ever visits them.
Bran’s Barra is actually a grouping of twenty small-to-teeny islands in the remote Outer Hebrides. The spark of Bran’s tale came to me on my first visit to Barra’s Kisimul Castle, ancient seat of the Barra MacNeils. This impressive isle-girt stronghold became Bran’s beloved
tower.
My affection for Barra includes the Barrachs themselves, most especially the Barra MacNeils. When I needed a bold, larger-than-life Hebridean chieftain, I looked no further than the MacNeils. I hope Bran of Barra does them proud. I tried to give him their fierce love of Barra, their big-hearted spirit and open-handed generosity, and their famed joy in life.
A proud and noble race, they also had a rollicking sense of humor. It’s true that, in days of yore, one of the more colorful MacNeil chiefs sent a trumpeter to the battlements each night to blast a fanfare, announcing that ‘the great MacNeil of Barra had dined and, having done so, the rest of the world was then free to begin their own evening meal.’
It’s also true that after Kisimul Castle fell to ruin, the eventual restoration was undertaken entirely by the men of Barra. Funds for the project poured in from MacNeils around the world, proving their devotion to the clan’s ancestral home.
I believe I chose well in letting the Barra MacNeils be the clan who changed Mindy’s mind about Scotland. I knew she’d fall in love with the Hebrides. But I wanted her hero to be a very special Hebridean man. One she couldn’t possibly resist. Only Bran of Barra would do!
For those wishing to visit Barra, there is air service. The flights are unique, landing on a beach, the Traigh Mohr. (I prefer the ferry) Either way, I promise you’ll love Barra.
