Laird of the Mist

by Foery MacDonell

  Carrick blinked back the mist in his eyes and looked deep, deep into the very depths of the water, still as stone, clear as wind.

  "Jenny," he barely spoke the name, no longer in doubt of Morag's awesome magic. "Jenny. Ye‘re alive! Where are ye mo cridhe? Tell me, please. I am lost without ye. Tell me so I may come to ye now..."

  "Carrick!" the image in the pool cried in delight. "Where are ye, husband? Come to me, for I am also lost. My life is nothing here. I am in a strange time and an odd place. I ha‘ been reborn into a new time. I am in a place so odd I canna tell ye how it is. The year is 2010 and the town is Destin, in a place called Florida. 'Tis America. Come to me, Carrick, ye must. For I canna be much longer without ye, my heart, mo leannan..."

  Her image slowly dissolved as she spoke the words and the pool returned to its clear calm as though nothing had ever happened.

  Chapter Two

  Destin, Florida - 2010

  Caitriona MacPhail woke in a pool of sweat, the sheets sticky and twisted, even though the breeze through the bedroom window was cool and refreshing. Reaching for the lamp on the side table, Caitriona slowly sat up and tried to regain her bearings. The dream had been more than a dream. It had been so real, so vivid, she could hardly distinguish between it and the reality of the room she awakened to. As the light cast its beam about the room, Caitriona, whom everyone called Cat for short, rose and slowly walked to the top of the staircase. All was quiet in the old Victorian mansion that had been her family home since before she was born, and was now hers. She checked in on her grandfather MacPhail, peacefully asleep.

  ― At least someone can sleep,‖ she sighed to herself, as she made her way down the stairs to the kitchen, where her owl-eyed Maine Coon cat, Guinness, was waiting for her.

  ―So there you are.‖ She reached down to pet his long, brown tabby fur. He cooed in satisfaction and settled on a chair to watch her make a cup of tea. A hot cup would help soothe her nerves and get her back to sleep. The dreams were always the same theme and, lately, becoming more frequent and intense.

  Always she was herself, but in another time, in what she knew to be Scotland from the clothing, landscape, and language. She looked the same, but her name was Jenny. Amazing that she could recall it.

  An enormous Scotsman was always present in some way; dark auburn hair, flashing blue eyes, a ready smile, and determined mind. He loved her passionately, and she returned the love in kind. She knew he was her lover and husband. She knew she could not ever live without him, had not ever lived without him, for she had known him since childhood and their souls were joined.

  In some dreams she could see their wedding (must be an influence from the many Highland games she played her fiddle at, she analyzed). A joyous event for the Laird and his Lady. A multitude of kin and clan attended, and she knew their faces—every one of them.

  Other dreams were of lovemaking so genuine that she could have sworn he was in her bed when she woke—reaching out for him in the expectation that he would be at her side.

  All of the dreams had been wondrous and she had actually looked forward to them. But this last dream was the one which finally disturbed her, made her tremble with trepidation and fear, caused tears to come as though she had experienced a loss so terrible that she would never recover.

  She sat at the kitchen table waiting for the tea to brew, reviewing the dream. The Scotsman had been looking at her in astonishment, calling her name, his joy in seeing her, begging her to tell him where she was. How he needed her. He must come to her, he had cried. And she had replied, telling him she was here—how could he not know where she was?

  She reached over and stroked Guinness, emotion welling inside her. She was losing her mind! It was so real, so true. It was a knowing in her soul that this was the truth of her life, and the sorrow was not a dream.

  She was being ridiculous, she admonished herself. It was just a stupid dream. She always had these dumb dreams just before a games! It was probably just nerves. She always was the one for stage fright.

  She poured her tea and sat sipping it slowly, reviewing her life and accomplishments. Born into a wealthy family, she had never lacked for anything. When Cat was orphaned along with her younger sister, Olivia, at the age of twelve, her father‘s parents had taken over the raising of them. A happy family they were, despite the loss. Now her sister had her own career as an artist and traveled all over the world.

  Grandmother MacPhail had died several years before, but her influence was still felt in Cat‘s life. Her grandma had been a concert violinist and raised Cat the same. Now Cat traveled the world and played classical music with the greatest orchestras. Playing fiddle at the local Highland games was her therapy.

  Grandda Hamish MacPhail, a retired doctor born in Scotland and proud of his heritage, lived with Cat and it was a happy partnership. Dr. MacPhail was spry and mischievous for his sixty-five years, and teased everyone endlessly with his thick Scottish brogue.

  Not a bad life. Full of friends, family, and accomplishment. She did not miss a lover, had had few, but with no real regret. Her career made romance difficult and she needed to be independent to travel and record. And tomorrow was the Emerald Coast/Ft. Walton Beach Highland Games at which she was always expected to perform the traditional Scottish tunes.

  ―Well, Guinness.‖ She picked up the enormous cat.―Off to bed with us.‖

  Cat set the cup in the sink and made her way back up the stairs. Sleepiness began to settle as she lay back into her pillow. Listening to the contented purring of her companion, she began to drift off, and through the ensuing fog she vaguely heard her lips whisper the name Carrick.

  ―So then, Morag,‖ Carrick began, feeling foolish. ―I am here as ye demanded wi‘ Jenny‘s locket.

  What next? ‖

  ―Patience, lad,‖ Morag whispered.―I havna done casting the circle. A moment more and then the

  moon is high as well. Ye step into the center when I tell ye, and I will do the rest. The magic is high tonight,

  ‗deed it‗tis.‖

  She was drawing a circle in the dirt with a long willow stick, a perfect circle in the center of the

  clearing near the sacred gazing pool. A thick mist began to rise about them—a dense fog that brought a chill

  to his spine.

  Morag set particular stones around the edge at intervals. What they were, Carrick had no idea. The

  whole thing was most peculiar, but his desperate state left no room for argument or question. ―Speak to me, Carrick, what ye must do and the terms of the travel now, before ye begin,‖ demanded

  the old woman.―I must be certain ye dinna fail to understand the dangers.‖

  ―God‘s teeth, Morag.‖ Carrick sighed impatiently.―Is this really necessary? I ken it well, ye told it so

  many times.‖

  ―Do it ye clot, or I willna help ye further.‖

  ―So be it then.‖ He folded his massive arms across his chest, skewing his plaid as he did.―I must make

  Jenny remember me within six moons or I will return to my own time alone. Each time I kiss her wi‘ the

  locket on my person, a memory will come to her. The locket must be wi‘ me at all times, for in it is the magic

  of her memories of me. If she does remember me fully, then we are free to stay in her time or come home as

  we please. The locket is the link to my own time, and if she doesna remember me, it will return me home. Are

  ye happy now, ye hag?‖

  ―Aye, that will do.‖ Morag smiled. Looking up at the full moon, an aura of mist around it, she seemed

  well-pleased, indeed.―One last thing. I ha‘ seen this place to where ye travel. It is full of strange things ye will

  no recognize or understand. Dinna let them steal yer mind from yer purpose, aye?‖

  Carrick nodded his agreement.―Aye. So ye told me.‖

  ―‗Tis time then, Laird Carrick. Ye may enter the circle. Hold the locket in yer right hand—ye do ken
>
  yer right hand d‘ye not?‖

  ―Get on wi‘ it ye witch,‖ he bellowed through the chilling fog. He could no longer see her.―I‘m no a

  bloody idiot. I want to be on my way. No more of yer teases and twitches.‖

  ―Aye, aye.‖ She chuckled, walking the rim of the circle.―Close yer eyes then, Carrick, and dinna open

  them. See yer Jenny as ye saw her in the pool and think only of her as ye hold the locket tight. I will speak the

  spell the now.‖

  Carrick stood rock still, the mist enveloping him to the bone as Morag circled him round and round,

  chanting in ancient Gaelic; words he could not understand, words which had no meaning for him. Carrick did as he was bid, holding the locket tightly in his hand for fear of it being lost in whatever

  should happen. What would happen? Silly old woman; probably nothing and best just to humor her. But what

  if this did work, what if he was truly about to travel some 260 years into the future and actually be with

  Jenny? The possibility raised insecurities foreign to him. She had looked exactly the same in the seeing pool;

  hair, eyes, her smile, even the sound of her voice. But there was little hope she would recognize him and he

  must prepare himself for that.

  If she never remembered him, would she be attracted to him in any conceivable way? Who knew what

  women wanted in the future? Surely not warriors? Surely in 260 years society was more civilized, and

  women did not have a need to be protector as now.

  Perhaps a warrior would be reviled in her eyes; he had killed, aye, but only in defense of self, family,

  and country. Would that be considered a noble thing where he was going, or would he be an outcast with

  blood on his hands? He would tread carefully there and assess the climate when he arrived—if he arrived. A sudden beating of the bodhran in his head, not in his ear, stopped his thoughts. A rhythmic beating

  that pulsed with his blood and made his stomach whirl. Now a stream of brilliant colors in his vision that

  flashed in time with the bodhran and Morag‘s ever diminishing chant. Flashes of memories with Jenny, their

  marriage, their lovemaking in the heather, and racing naked through the streams together. Her voice calling to

  him, ―Carrick, I am here. You are almost home. Try just a bit harder.....come to me, mo cridhe...‖ Sounds like gypsy campfire music, tambourines, mournful fiddles and pipes, and dancing flooded his

  brain, and he felt the intensity of the sensual music in every part of his being. So intense it was, that he

  thought he would be sick. But instead, he lost all awareness and fell to the ground in a helpless heap, holding

  Jenny‘s locket tightly in his fist.

  Chapter Three

  ―Another lovely games, eh lass?‖ Hamish MacPhail commented, as Cat pulled her Mercedes into the driveway.

  ― Aye, grandda,‖ Cat agreed, imitating his lilting Scottish accent.―‗Twas indeed. Duncan said it was the best attendance in years.‖

  No wonder,‖ he proudly replied as he let himself out of the car, ―what with a world class fiddler on the bill.‖

  ―Oh, granddda!‖ Cat laughed, taking his arm as they started through the front door where Guinness was waiting for them. The brown tabby cocked his head sideways and let out a happy, ―hello!‖

  ―I will never get used to that cat saying ‗hello,‘‖ Hamish marveled. ―It‘s unnatural.‖

  ―Perfectly natural for a Maine Coon, grandda.‖ Cat smiled as she bent to pet him. ―He‘s happy to see us.‖

  ―And happy I am to be home and off to bed, m‘darlin‘.‖ Her grandfather kissed her cheek.―Good night to ye and yer witch-cat.‖

  ―And a good sleep to you, grandda,‖ Cat replied, locking the door behind them.―We‘ll have a nice, relaxing day tomorrow on the beach.‖

  ―Aye, lass, that we will,‖ he agreed with a yawn, stepping around Guinness who had been observing silently.―Well, m‘darlin‘, may the fairies bless yer sleep.‖

  ―And yours as well, granddda.‖ Cat gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.―Off with you now.‖ She smiled as she waved and went in back to the kitchen to make some tea, Guinness coming in her wake.

  ―Do you feel it too, Guinness?‖ she asked the cat. Her arms were tingling lightly, as though electricity swam through the air around her. An intense flash of lightening ran up her spine, causing her to sit abruptly at the table.

  What is wrong with me? She tried to shake the sensations off, but instead, a maze of colors revolved in her vision nearly obscuring it.

  She must be coming down with something, she decided, then prayed she wasn‘t. She had a full schedule leading up to recording her new album.

  ―Jenny?‖ a male voice whispered in the distance.―Are ye there? Come to me.‖

  Cat fervently denied the experience, summoning her will to dismiss it. Slowly, it faded and left a slight headache in its wake.

  She stood carefully, gripping the table‘s edge, and shook it off. She seemed to be recovered and let go of the table. I’m still standing. She let out a held breath in relief.

  A walk on the beach would do her good, she decided. It was a lovely night with a full moon high in the sky that sent floating beams through the kitchen window. Cat could never resist such a night. She slipped quietly out the door and down the deck steps to the world-renown, fine white sand—so white and so fine, that it resembled powdered sugar and stuck to her bare feet.

  Always curious, Guinness followed close behind her, talking softly all the way.

  ―Aww...‖ came a deep moan from somewhere near the southern corner of the house.―Oh, good God bless me,‖ the voice groaned in pain.―‗Tis true, what the witch said.‗Tis true!‖

  What? Cat said to herself as she walked cautiously toward the source. Then aloud, ―What in the hell?‖

  There, in a messy, tousled heap, lay a disheveled and enormous man curled into as tight a ball as someone so large could do. His hands were wrapped around his head and his eyes were wide and staring.

  ―Jenny!‖ he cried, as he began to uncurl and stumble to his feet.―Blessed be all the Saints, ‗tis you!‖

  ―Here, let me help you.‖ Cat bent over and grasped his upper arm in an attempt to help him stand.―Oh God!‖ She laughed as they both fell back over onto the sand. She hadn‘t anticipated how truly large this man was, and the fact that she was considerably smaller.

  ―Aye!‖ laughed Carrick.―I‘m a bit much for ye. But then I always was, aye, Jenny?―nd ye look exactly the same as when I saw ye last. I would ha‘ kent ye anywhere.‖

  ―Jenny?‖ Cat grew serious, recognizing the name from her dreams. It made her cautious, yet curious. ―Who is this Jenny you are talking about? My name is Caitriona and you somehow got yourself here to my house.‖ She looked him up and down carefully now that he was standing—somewhat wobbly—but standing nevertheless.

  She noticed his kilt, done in the old style— wrapped about the waist, belted, and the rest thrown over his shoulder. She noticed he wore no clan badge, and his tartan looked a bit weary at that.

  Good Lord, he was the most stunning man she had ever seen. In fact, he was breathtaking. From his long dark auburn hair tied with leather in a que at the back of his neck, to his massively broad shoulders and chest—a well-muscled chest that—she could get a peek of through his loosely fitted shirt. Just looking at him made her dizzy. And he had an uncanny resemblance to the man in her mysterious, recurring dreams.

  Wonder what he kisses like/. Damn, random thoughts. Stop this. This man is a complete stranger. He could be dangerous. And anyway, he clearly needs assistance.

  ―You must be one of the reenactors from the Highland games,‖ she ventured.―Are you lost? Perhaps I can help you get back to your hotel or— you aren‘t drunk are you?‖

  ―Me? Drunk?‖ Carrick took immediate offense.―No bloody likely! I gave the stuff up l
ong ago when it nearly killed me wi‘ wanting it so. Jenny, losing ye drove me mad. And what in heaven is a re-en-act-or?‖

  Suddenly, Carrick remembered that Cat had no idea who he was. She had forgotten her life with him and was no longer the Jenny he knew. He would have to proceed very carefully. Especially if he was to get her to kiss him, and recover her memories.

  ―Oh, come on now.‖ Cat raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms.―Dressed like that? It‘s obvious you attend Highland games all the time. And you‘re wearing an ancient-style kilt. Mostly only reenactors wear those.‖

  ―My kilt isna ancient. I‘ve had it only a few years.‖ He was insulted.―Worn a bit, aye, but certainly no ancient. And what in hell do ye mean games? We havena‘ had a games in the Highlands for many a year, I assure ye. Would ye mind if I just sit for a bit, lass? My head is beginning to pound as if I was hit wi‘ a sword.‖

  ―Oh!‖ The light dawned on Cat.―Then you must be a reenact or. That‘s it! You must have been hit on the head during an exhibition. Do you know your name?‖

  ―Of course, I know my bloody name,‖ Carrick bellowed.―I am no a bloody fool! I was educated in France, ye silly woman! And ye ken it well, ye potty lass.‖

  Cat started to approach him, ready to check his head for bumps and bruises.

  ―How would I possibly know your name, or where you were educated? I‘ve never seen you before in my life! You really are becoming annoying. You must have had one hell of a hit. So what is it?‖

  ―What is what?‖

  Imitating him as best she could she retorted, ―Yer bloody name that I am supposed to know so damn well.‖

  ―Stop that!‖ he roared, as Cat began to run her fingers through his hair, looking for the telltale bump that caused his memory loss. Hopefully, it would be temporary. Granddda ought to look at him. She would wake him in a bit for that.

  ―I have to check your head for bumps and see how seriously you are injured,‖ Cat explained.―Just calm down and cooperate, will you?‖

  ―‗Tis Carrick MacDonell.‖

  ―Carrick MacDonell, is it? Nice name. I like it; the way it rolls off the end of your tongue.‖ Cat made a mistake in saying the word tongue, as she immediately returned to wondering about his kisses. Oh God...