by Jo Jones
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EPILOGUE
ALISTAIR
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor (No. 40)
By Jo Jones
KINDLE EDITION
PUBLISHED BY
Jo Ann Jones
http://jojonesauthor.weebly.com
ALISTAIR
Copyright © 2018 J. Jones
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Series © 2015 L.Lytle
All rights reserved
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Interior book design by Bob Houston eBook Formatting
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION
BOOKS IN THE SERIES
A NOTE ABOUT THE SERIES
ALISTAIR
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DEDICATION
To Dean, whose love and support have always been my bedrock.
BOOKS IN THE SERIES
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor
1. The Gathering
2. Lachlan
3. Jamie
4. Payton
5. Gareth
6. Fraser
7. Rabby
8. Duncan
9. Aiden
10. Macbeth
11. Adam
12. Dougal
13. Kennedy
14. Liam
15. Gerard
16. Malcolm
18. Watson
19. Iain
20. Connor
21. MacLeod
22. Murdoch
23. Brodrick
24. The Bugler
25. Kenrick
26. Patrick
27. Finlay
28. Hamish
29. Rory
30. MacBean
31. Tristan
32. Niall
33. Fergus
34. Angus
35. Bram
36 Alexander
37 Ronan
38 The Blacksmith
39 Ross
40. Alistair
A NOTE ABOUT THE SERIES
Although the individual stories of Culloden’s 79 need not be read in strict order, The Gathering should be read first to understand what’s going on between the Muir Witch and these Highland warriors from 1746.
The names of Culloden’s 79 are historically accurate in that we have used only the clan or surnames of those who actually died on that fateful day. The given names have been changed out of respect for those brave men and their descendants. If a ghost happens to share the entire name of a fallen warrior, it is purely accidental.
ALISTAIR
CHAPTER ONE
Alistair MacDonell gazed beyond the glow of Soncerae’s fire to the broad landscape of Culloden Moor, cloaked now by the thick shadows of a moonless night. In the nearly three centuries he’d been tethered here, he’d memorized every sound, every wisp of a scent or brush of a breeze. But tonight, try as he might, he couldna identify the source of the uneasy sensation churning in his ghostly gut. He couldna see the cairn, nor the clan stones in the sooty darkness, but he kenned the placement of each, and all the other subtilties of the moor that had become part of his unearthly existence.
“Och! ’Tis more afoot this night than Soni helpin’ another lad leave the Moor,” he observed. “Somethin’s behind this braw chill settlin’ in my bones.” Alistair turned to his longtime friend. “Do ye feel it, Gregor?”
“Ye dinna have bones, Number 2,” his friend scoffed, keeping his eyes on Soni as she built her fire into a leaping, living thing. “And I’m feelin’ naught but the hope that Soncerae will choose me this night. I’ve an itch tae face the Bonny Prince and give him a taste of what he left us tae face wi’out so much as a ‘die-well, lads’ on his cowardly lips.”
“Aye, well, I ken some o’ the lads who’ve gone afore ye, may have already dispatched the traitor.”
“Mayhap,” Gregor nodded. “But I’ll see it for myself before I’m satisfied.” He turned to Alistair. “And ye? If Soncerae was tae choose ye this night, would ye seek out Prince Charlie?”
’Twas a weighty question, to be sure. Alistair searched his soul for the answer as he stared into the dark shadows beyond Soni’s fire. He’d railed against the errant Prince along with the other 78 ghosts, for the man’s crime had been grave, indeed.
Prince Charles had betrayed everyone who’d sacrificed for the Jacobite cause; the braw, brave lads who’d stood and fought at Culloden when the Prince himself would no’, who’d suffered and died there, and their families who’d borne the consequences long after. And most of all, Scotland itself.
Did Alistair desire revenge? Surely. Who wouldna? But did he desire to seek it above all else? Nae. ’Twas an empty pursuit in the end, was it no’? ’Twas certainly no’ something a man could build a life on, nor ask someone to share.
’Twas a family he truly yearned for. He’d no’ had one as child nor man, save these brave lads he’d fought and died with. And while they held a solid place in his heart, they dinna fill the spot he’d reserved for a family of his own. And now, ’twas too late.
So, if he was gifted with but two days of mortality what exactly, would be valuable enough to spend them on, when what he desired most was beyond his reach?
“ ’Tis an intriguing question, is it no’ Alistair?” The voice startled him, even though ’twas as soft as the sweetest tinkling bell.
Soncerae. How had she come upon him, without his notice? Had she read his thoughts? Was she asking him to answer those thoughts, or simply repeating Gregor’s question?
Soni smiled patiently. “When thoughts are wrought from such deep scrutiny of one’s soul, ’tis as if ye shout them aloud for all tae hear. I’m surprised Gregor dinna hear them, as w
ell.”
She glanced at Gregor who gave her a puzzled look. “I dinna hear him say anything, lass. He hasna answered my question a’tall.”
“Nae.” Soni agreed. “He hasna.” She looked expectantly at Alistair. “Nor his own.”
“I dinna wish tae disappoint ye, lass, but I fear I’ve no answer tae give.” Alistair noticed that most of the lads who’d congregated around Soni’s fire, now watched their exchange. Many of them, over time, had sought him out for answers to their questions or concerns. Now he couldna even answer his own.
“I ken ye’ve none at the moment,” Soncerae smiled sweetly as she reached for his hand. “Let us pray ye find one.”
CHAPTER TWO
Drifting between slumber and awareness, Alistair grumbled, shifted and burrowed deeper into his sleeping hollow. When had it become so uncomfortable? Sticks, rocks and the cold, hard ground hadna been an issue for hundreds of years, so why suddenly, did they plague him, along with the damp chill surrounding him like a leaden cloak?
He couldna remember feeling anything this acutely in, well…centuries. Nor this unusual bit of impatience at the pesky irritations disturbing his sleep. He squeezed his eyelids tighter, determined to prevail, but even his thoughts wouldna cooperate.
Why dinna he remember leaving Soni’s fire and retiring to his hollow? No matter, he supposed, determined now that he was here, to make the best of it…if the bloody birds would but cooperate. ’Twas a strange and boisterous commotion they were wielding. No’ one he’d ever heard before. And come to think of it, even the scents assaulting him were unfamiliar. Forest scents. No’ the familiar fragrances of the moor.
Confused, he opened one eye to see the slow, rhythmic creeping of a worm making its way across a fallen bit of bark, mere inches from his face. Bark that dinna belong on the moor. His cheek rested on dark, damp soil, littered by fallen pine needles, sticks, and rocks.
This wasna his sleeping hollow!
He sat up, shocked by the weighty drag of muscle and bone, and the stiffness of his chest as it expanded with each breath.
Breath?
Swaying a little, he staggered noisily to his feet, scattering the raucous birds from the treetops. A forest of pine and other unknown trees spread before him as far as he could see, heavily littered with undergrowth and a spattering of dead, white-barked fallen trees. The air was sharp with the scents of pine and ripe, damp earth, lush green growth and languishing decay. It had rained recently, quite heavily, it appeared, providing fat droplets as prisms for the newly rising sun, leaving the ground spongy beneath the layers of debris.
Another breath expanded his lungs, coming a bit easier now, as he leaned against the ragged edge of a large boulder, savoring the feel of rough stone through both the thick folds of his plaid and the thinner fabric of his longshirt. He concentrated on reacquainting himself with the burden of a mortal body. The sensations, however tantalizing, seemed more intense than he remembered. Mayhap because he so keenly kenned the contrast from his recent ghostly state.
Soncerae had chosen him, after all. But for what? His question from last night came back to him as loudly as if he’d spoken it. If he was gifted with but two days of mortality, what exactly would be valuable enough to spend them on?
He still dinna ken the answer. So what purpose had Soni in mind when she sent him here? Did she work from a preconceived plan or just send each of The 79 haphazardly into the world to see what they made of themselves, by themselves?
Another question with no apparent answer.
He studied the forest, where ahead of him, the densely wooded slope rose at a sharp angle. To his left, the rise was more gradual, the trees giving way in a couple of spots to small grassy meadows. Further on, a craggy stone outcropping broke up the march of trees. To his right, everything dropped sharply into a deep narrow ravine, with a bald, grassy ridge beyond. Turning to look behind him, his newly beating heart picked up at the sight of a narrow road, snaking up from a long, thin valley below.
A boon! Roads led to people. Eventually, anyway. ’Twas at least a direction to pursue. Far better than spending his two days of mortality watching worms cavort across fallen strips of bark.
The space from his resting place to the road was clogged with thick grasses, dense underbrush, and slippery, gooey, mud that caked his boots and sent him to his knees more often than his pride wished to acknowledge. ’Twould take some time to readjust to balancing and coordinating his large stature with steady movement. By the time he reached the edge of the slimy road, he was almost as saturated with muck as it was.
Rainwater pooled in the many dips and hollows. Alistair studied the gouged path of uneven wheel tracks, far too wide to have been made by a wagon or cart. They seemed more the width of the wheels on vehicles that brought hordes of visitors to Culloden Moor. Judging by that, he kenned he’d no’ been sent back to his own time.
Where then, was he?
He couldna tell by the tracks if the traveler had been going up or down, but ’twas no use standing about wondering. ’Twas naught to do but follow the road down into the little valley, and hope it led to another, lower valley, where hopefully a village, or even a cottage, could be found. He studied the soupy road and its edge, littered with rocks, fallen logs, and uneven clumps of grass. ’Twould be more work to climb over all the debris, but mayhap wiser and no’ as frustrating as trudging, slipping, and likely falling repeatedly in the slimy mud. At least the road’s edge offered a bit of traction.
The rising sun warmed him as he moved along, but also began to dry the mud caking him until it resembled a brown, ill-fitting suit of armor. It tightened on his bare skin as if trying to suck out what little moisture it could find. The sun, however, dinna do much to lessen the muck he laboriously traipsed through.
He’d only managed a short distance when he came to a fallen tree that spanned the width of the road. The exposed roots and branches held it off the ground a little way, but not far enough that Alistair wanted to slither his bulk through the mud, beneath it. He’d have to climb over. Fortunately, a pile of rocks helped him get partway up, enabling him to pull himself the rest of the way, until he straddled the trunk.
Mayhap, if he stood on the raised bole, he’d have a better view of the valley below. He struggled to stand and maintain his balance with the slippery soles of his boots on the smooth white bark. For such a tall tree, the trunk was distressingly narrow. Alistair frowned as he teetered on the curved, rain-slick bark. Spreading his arms wide for balance, he strained to see as much as he could of the valley below, hoping for some sign of civilization beyond the long, winding road. There, on the left! A wisp of smoke?
Taxing his dormant muscles even further, he rose to his toes and stretched as far as he dared, leaning back just a bit to compensate. Nae, he realized dejectedly. ’Twas merely the last of the morning mist, hiding in the treetops.
Suddenly, his feet were above him as he flailed his arms through empty air. His back slammed against the pile of rocks, forcing the air from his newly working lungs in a powerful, painful rush as his head connected with stone, bounced once, then stilled, twisting his neck at an odd angle. Stunned for several seconds, he tried desperately, and unsuccessfully, to suck in more air as his vision dimmed and the sensation of blood, wet and warm oozed down the back of his skull.
He lay crumpled and bleeding, gasping for air that wouldn’t come and realized through a fog of pain and dimming awareness, that his mortality hadn’t even lasted an hour.
~ ~ ~
“Just a minute, Gus.” Brie Drummond finished typing the final paragraph of a scene, saved it and closed her laptop. “Are you sure you want to go for a run? It’s awfully wet out there.”
Gus barked excitedly, making three quick circles in front of the door, his wagging tail nothing but a blur. Laughing, Brie slipped on her Bogs and tucked sunglasses into her jacket pocket in case the sun decided to actually stay out this time.
“Okay, Gus,” Brie sai
d, opening the door. “I guess three days of being cooped up from rain, is long enough. But we’ll both need a bath when we finish traipsing through all that wet grass and muck, so fair warning.”
Oblivious, Gus bounded onto the deck, down the steps and out the narrow lane before Brie had a chance to even shut the door. She’d only taken a few steps when she remembered to go back and lock the door. Despite loving the isolation afforded her by being the last cabin on a dead-end road, she’d be foolish to ignore warnings from the county sheriff and other cabin owners about the recent break-ins on the mountain.
She backtracked for a key, locked up and went to see what mischief Gus had gotten into. He was entirely too fond of squirrels and she didn’t need a repeat of last year, when he’d assumed a skunk to be just as harmless.
“Gus!” she called, even though he’d left a clear trail in the mud. It was nasty, sticky stuff, and as difficult to maneuver through as it would be to wash off. She was already calculating how many tubs of water it would take to get Gus’s thick, Border Collie coat back to a recognizable black-and-white.
At best, it would be several days before the roads dried out enough she could get her pickup down the slick, clay-packed mountain road, and into town. The sharp drop to the ravine a half-mile down, didn’t allow any room for mishaps. One of these years, she’d actually follow through with her threat to have enough gravel hauled in to make the turn safer. But better roads brought more traffic. A double-edged sword.
Thankfully, she had another week to get her revisions back to her editor. The lack of phone or internet access up here could be a hassle, but since there was nothing she valued more than her privacy, she still felt it was a good trade. Going into town every couple of weeks to connect, suited her needs just fine.
Her thoughts drifted to the ‘wild-man’ or ‘mountain-man’, as the locals had dubbed whoever had been breaking into mountain cabins over the summer. Though not ready to totally dismiss any danger, she doubted he moved long distances between isolated cabins, carrying all his loot on his back. He had to have some kind of transportation. Which meant he wouldn’t be making the all but impossible trek to her remote cabin with these road conditions. Besides, so far, he’d never broken into an occupied cabin.
