Through the Mist: Restoration

by C. Renee Freeman

  Through the Mist: Restoration

  By C. Renee Freeman

  Copyright © 2016 by C. Renee Freeman

  All rights reserved

  This book is a work of the writer’s imagination. Names, characters, places, and events have been created by the writer to present the story or are used fictitiously. Resemblance to any place, event, or person (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  To H. –

  Your unwavering support and friendship made this book possible. Thank you for enduring endless discussions about the story and patiently offering suggestions whenever it needed a tweak. I never could have created this world without you.

  and

  To G. –

  Thank you for patiently waiting whenever Mommy delayed a walkie or did not provide a belly rub as quickly as you would have liked. Yes, I included you in the book, as promised.

  Prologue

  Gleann A’bunadh

  Scotland

  1601 A.D.

  Morag leaned against the freshly-hewn wood of the paddock as she watched her husband Ailig tend to the calf recently delivered by their shaggy Highland heifer. He cooed to the animal and whispered endearments in Gaelic. Shaking her head, she realized they were the same words he said to her last night. “You silly man, you love that wee cow more than you do me,” she chided.

  “My love, you had no complaints when I petted you,” he said, laughing heartily.

  Despite her advanced years, she blushed like a maiden. “Lower your voice,” she said. She glanced around to make sure her grandchildren were not lurking nearby. “I do not want the whole village to know our private business.”

  He strode to her. With a hand battered by age and hard work, he tucked a wayward strand of her white hair behind her ear. “We do not want to cover that lovely face,” he whispered. He placed a warm, gentle kiss on her lips. His white beard tickled her face.

  She sighed. Even after all these years, he knew how to make her weak in the knees. “How much longer will you be?” she asked. She plucked a piece of straw from his kilt. She noticed that the shirt she made for him had grown thin. She should make him another one soon.

  “I am almost finished,” he said, wiping the sweat from his bald head. He opened the gate and joined her. “I must gather more wood for the fire.”

  “Then, hurry. Dinner is almost ready.”

  They walked in companionable silence toward the thatched-roof hut he had built for them. Ailig patted her on the bottom when she entered their hut. She watched him pass through the village and was happy to see one of the men join him.

  While her husband and she believed themselves to be forever young, they were not. They both moved a little slower than they once did, their bodies aching from the unstoppable march of time. She was grateful they had finally settled in this valley after years of wandering. It was a perfect spot. The valley backed against a thick, green forest filled with red stag and was surrounded by gently rolling mountains. A stream with the clearest water she had ever seen flowed nearby. Yes, this valley could provide everything they needed. Perhaps they could stay and watch their grandchildren grow here.

  A shriek interrupted her thoughts. She raced to the doorway and frantically scanned the area. She spotted a woman who was pointing toward the forest. Squinting, she could see her husband and his companion racing back to the village. A horde of men on horseback were in hot pursuit. “MacDonalds!” Morag cried, recognizing the tartan of the attackers.

  She rushed into the hut. With some effort, she removed the silver shield from above their bed and grabbed a sword that always rested beside the door.

  When she ran outside, she found the village in utter chaos. The women dragged their children into the huts. The men collected whatever weapons they could find and prepared to do battle. She searched among them for her husband but did not see him. She looked across the valley and saw that the MacDonalds had surrounded Ailig.

  “No!” she screamed as she charged toward them. She could hear the men running behind her, a small comfort. She would have taken on the whole group by herself if it meant saving her beloved.

  “Morag!” her husband shouted when she drew near. “Go back, woman!”

  The MacDonalds laughed when they saw her. She knew they probably thought she was a frail, old crone who was no threat to them. That will be their undoing, she thought blackly.

  She clutched the shield and reached the intruders before the villagers behind her. She could still move quickly when the need demanded. “You will leave this place now!” she roared.

  The MacDonald chieftain dismounted from his horse and drew his sword. Walking toward Ailig, he raised it high and swung wide. Just when the blow would have connected with her husband’s head, Morag lifted the shield in front of his face. Her arm shook when the sword hit the silvery metal but did not yield.

  Winking, Ailig took the sword and shield from his wife. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and said with a wicked grin, “Thank you for bringing my weapons, my love.”

  She heard him yell a grievous insult when he turned and attacked the chieftain. The men from the village fought in hand-to-hand combat with the other MacDonalds, using fists when their weapons failed them. She crouched low on the ground and pulled a small dagger from her woolen stocking. While she was no warrior, she was prepared to defend herself.

  It quickly became apparent that their group was no match for the MacDonalds. They were outnumbered. Their crude farm implements were no match for broadswords. Morag watched three men fall in front of her. She ruefully admitted she was glad that none of them was Ailig.

  To her surprise, the sound of thundering hooves filled the air. Fearing the arrival of more MacDonalds, she clutched the knife and readied herself for the attack. This new set of men came from the opposite side of the valley. Had they been waiting for the right moment to join their party?

  Then, she realized they were not part of the MacDonald clan. On the contrary, they were Campbells. She spotted the distinctive navy color in their tartan as it flapped in the wind. She counted twenty men in the group and noticed the furious look upon its leader’s face.

  They attacked immediately upon arrival, viciously slashing the MacDonalds with their mighty claymores and hurling insults that were almost as brutal as the blows. They were relentless in their assault. They sliced through the group without mercy. Morag smiled, an odd thing to do in battle, but she was glad that survival no longer seemed like a bleak prospect.

  She scanned the tangle of fighting bodies, desperately searching for her husband. It was hard to see in the furious struggle so she rose from her crouched position. Finally, she found him and screamed. He was lying in a heap ten feet in front of her.

  She pushed her way through the mass of men until she reached his side. She rolled him onto his back and saw that he was still alive, though barely. A wicked slash at his temple gushed with ruby red blood. Using her blade, she sliced a piece of the tattered gray dress she wore and pressed the thin fabric against the wound. She felt the warm blood quickly soak the cloth. It did not staunch the bleeding. Her beloved had suffered a mortal blow.

  Tears tumbled down her wrinkled cheeks. Clutching his face in her hands, she leaned over him and stared desperately into his eyes. “Stay with me,” she pleaded. “Stay with me, my love.”

  She was oblivious to the battle that ended almost as quickly as it began. Finally, she looked up when a tall, auburn-haired man in a Campbell tartan kilt approached them. She raised her blade in case he meant them harm.

  Lifting his hands, he said, “My name is Colin Campbell. I am not a foe.”

  She lowered the blade and returned her attention to her husband. His breathing had gr
own shallow, yet he looked at her with a steady gaze.

  The man bent beside them. Ailig grabbed his hand, tightly gripping it. He stared into Colin’s green eyes. “You have saved the lives of my clan,” he said. “I thank you.”

  “My name is Ailig,” he continued. “I am the chieftain, and this is my bonnie wife, Morag.”

  She nodded to Colin. Her eyes filled with fear, she whispered words of comfort to her dying husband.

  “Rest ye now,” Colin said, trying unsuccessfully to remove his hand from the old man’s firm grasp.

  “Nay, I do not have much time,” he protested. “I wish to bestow a blessing, if you will accept.”

  Morag leaned forward. “Save your strength, my heart,” she urged. She gently caressed his forehead. She could not contain the tears that fell from her watery eyes.

  Ailig caressed her cheek with his free hand. He forced a weak smile and said, “Take care of our family. Know that I am with you always.”

  He turned to Colin. “Take my shield as a reminder of this day,” he said, lightly touching the battered object beside him. “You fought so that others may live. Remember that when you look upon it.”

  Gazing lovingly at his wife, he added, “May it also remind you to fight for love. I die this day knowing that I fought for love.” Looking at the dusky sky, he said, “To know love is to know God.”

  Colin covered the man’s hand with his own and squeezed hard. “Sir, I solemnly vow to honor you,” he whispered.

  Ailig drew one last shuddering breath. He was gone.

  Morag wailed and collapsed upon her husband’s chest, her long white hair spreading across it. Hot tears burned her cheeks. She thought her heart might shatter and silently hoped it would. How would life continue without Ailig by her side?

  The other villagers assembled around them, word quickly spreading of their chieftain’s death. One of the women carefully supported her when she tried to rise. Colin helped the other men carry Ailig to the edge of the forest.

  Someone had already constructed a crude funeral pyre for the bodies of the MacDonalds. Morag watched the villagers toss the dead attackers into the fire. She spat bitterly onto the body of that clan’s chieftain. In the long-forgotten language of her mother’s people, she damned them to a restless afterlife and cursed their descendants to a life of ruin. All that they loved would be ripped from their grasp one day, just as her husband was taken from her.

  With great reverence, Ailig’s clan dug graves for their fallen chieftain and comrades underneath a mighty oak at the entrance to the forest. Morag appreciated the great respect Colin and his men showed as they stood off to the side, heads solemnly bowed.

  Night quickly descended, the only light provided by the crackling funeral pyre. The villagers ignored the approaching darkness for a few more moments as they bid a final farewell to those lost in battle.

  After a time, Morag separated from them. She firmly grasped the shield in her hands and approached Colin. She handed it to him. “Remember him when you carry it,” she said. ”My husband was a fine man.”

  He took it from her, his hands shaking. Overwhelmed with emotion, he humbly dropped to his knees before her. She placed a gnarled hand upon his head and closed her eyes. Tilting back her head, she lifted her face to the night sky and reached her arm toward the heavens. A thin mist rose from the forest floor, and clouds moved over the full moon and twinkling stars.

  She inhaled the crisp air. She spoke again in the foreign tongue, summoning heaven and earth to watch over this man, to bring him health and happiness. While he had not saved Ailig, he rescued their village. For that, she was eternally grateful.

  She was amused to see Colin swallow a lump that had apparently formed in his throat. She suspected he thought she was a witch. Perhaps she was. Or maybe she was not. It was of no consequence now. Her one true love was gone.

  Raising his head, he stared at Morag. “I will protect your family,” he promised. “I make this vow in Ailig’s memory.”

  A ghost of a smile formed on her lips. She extended her hand and helped him to his feet. Patting him on the cheek, she said firmly, “I know you will, son. If you do not, his soul will haunt you forever.”

  Colin laughed uneasily. He offered his arm to her.

  As they walked toward the village, the moon slipped from the clouds. A silvery beam of light struck the shield. Morag smiled when she noticed a tiny symbol that briefly flashed upon the surface, shimmering in the moonlight. It disappeared, unseen by her companion.

  So it begins, she thought.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  Thirty Four

  Thirty Five

  Thirty Six

  Thirty Seven

  Thirty Eight

  Thirty Nine

  Forty

  Forty One

  Forty Two

  Forty Three

  Forty Four

  Forty Five

  Forty Six

  Epilogue

  One

  Asheville, North Carolina

  Present day

  Tilly Munro stood on the concrete slab of the patio, her eyes closed and face tilted the sky. She savored the warmth of the sun on her skin. After a long, cold winter, it felt wonderful to finally have a spring day. She inhaled the smell of grass, trees, and plants, all waiting to burst forth with new life. It was a time for new beginnings for everyone, including herself.

  She lowered her head and opened her hazel eyes. She stared at the tiny handprints in the concrete. Bending down, she gently traced the outline and could not resist a smile. Her husband Alex had spent two hours smoothing the surface to perfection. He was angry at first, then he burst out laughing at the joyful expression on the twins’ faces. John and Anna giggled at the squishy feel of the cold concrete between their fingers. Who can be angry when confronted with those innocent, smiling faces?

  She caressed her ring finger on her left hand. It felt odd not to feel the platinum wedding band there. Would the feeling go away some day? Did she want it to disappear?

  “Sweetie, it is a time,” her best friend, Beth Madison, yelled from the kitchen. “We will miss our flight if we don’t leave now.”

  Sighing heavily, Tilly took one last look at the backyard. She wanted to burn the sight into her memory - the gleam of the stainless steel grill where Alex cooked many a meal, the bright reds, blues, and yellows of the children’s jungle gym. So many evenings spent here.

  She hastily wiped away the tears that slid down her cheeks before she strode into kitchen. Silently, she looped her arm around Beth’s and made her way to the front door.

  Beth’s husband Randall met them on the porch. “Cathy Rogers is here,” he whispered. He cast a pointed look toward his wife. “Be nice.”

  As they descended the brick steps, Cathy rushed to greet them. She leaned forward and air kissed each of Tilly’s cheeks, a habit that always made Tilly cringe. Cathy liked to say she picked up the practice when she spent a year in France as an exchange student. Tilly knew it was yet another attempt for the Young Urban Professionals League doyenne to appear superior to everyone else.

  Of course, she did not need air kisses to do that. From head to toe, the woman oozed
money. Her icy blonde hair was a color that she maintained with weekly visits to a posh salon downtown. The woman’s navy sheath dress and red stiletto heels cost more than Tilly’s first car. She always wore delicate pearls around her neck, a present from her physician father when she graduated from Wellesley College. Cathy kept none of these things secret, for she liked to maintain her elevated status in the community.

  Tilly suddenly felt very self-conscious. She ran her fingers through her straight, brown hair which held hints of gray she did not bother to dye. She tugged at the bottom of her dull gray t-shirt and wished she had picked a pair of nice pants or a skirt, instead of the faded jeans she wore. And, was that a chunk of red clay mud stuck to the side of her right sneaker? She shifted her foot behind her to conceal the mess.

  “Such a beautiful home,” Cathy said, scanning the exterior of the two-story white farmhouse. “I can see how much care Alex and you put into restoring it. Rest assured, I found the perfect family who will be just as respectful as the two of you.”

  “I appreciate your help with selling the farm.” She nudged Beth in the ribs. Without looking at her friend, she knew a biting retort was imminent.

  Cathy dismissively waved her hand. “Oh, honey, it was my pleasure!” she exclaimed with false warmth. A smug smile formed on her red lips. “I am glad I could be there in your time of need.”

  “Time of need?” Beth asked, cackling acidly. “The first time you set foot in this house was the day you heard she wanted to sell it.”

  Tilly smothered a laugh as Cathy’s face flushed most unbecomingly. She stepped between the women, glancing at Randall for help. She was glad to see that he too noticed the impending fight. As he guided Beth toward the car, she turned to Cathy. “Thank you for working with the buyers so I could see the house one last time.” Reluctantly, she placed the keys in Cathy’s outstretched palm.

  The woman stared angrily at Beth’s retreating form. Leaning close so only Tilly could hear, she said, “If you decide to return to Asheville, you give me a call. Your friends are always here to help you.”