by Liz Lyles
“Are you in contact with your family, then?”
The wind was rushing louder, a constant rippling among the flowers and he closed his eyes briefly, imagining himself outside. Free. “We do not know each other.”
“But your mother—”
“I’ve never known her. I was sent to Angus Castle at four. I have no recollection of her.” He hesitated, his fingers wrapping about the pipe stem, the wood smooth and warm in his hand. He lifted his head and his dark eyes fastened on the monk. “She is alive, then?”
“Yes, and your brothers. At least Michael, Rory, and John. The first two work at trade, the last, John, is at sea.”
After being alone so long up here, he found it difficult to picture all of them: Michael had been the eldest, then Kirk, Rory, Alan, and the youngest, John, whom they had always called Troy. As he said each of the names to himself, he pictured his brothers’ faces. In his mind, they would always be like him, just lads. Nothing more than hungry young boys who always wanted something more to eat.
“What of Alan? Where is he?”
“Dead. The same epidemic that killed him took your brother, Michael’s family.” He waved his hand in front of his face, flushed, still hot from the climb. “Now the girl—”
“My father?”
The friar shrugged, exasperated. “He left the family years ago. I believe he drowned shortly afterwards.”
“Drowned?”
“If I recall, he worked on a fishing vessel. Was drunk, fell over, and that was the end of him.”
The falconer kicked the embers of the fire. He watched the red lump break apart and crumble into hot glowing dust. His voice was low, cold when he spoke. “As I said, Brother, the Buchanans need you more there than we need you here.”
“Why don’t you take the lass back with you? This is no life for a child.”
“I can’t go back. There is nowhere for me to go. Macleod’s ban extends far and wide. Other lords are honoring the decree. I, the Macleod falconer, can go now here but up and down this hillside.”
“And Cordaella?”
“Cordaella is happy here. For her, this is home. How can she want more? To her four-year-old mind, this is what the world should be. Meadows and rivers and animals. She has a playground bigger than any other northern child. No one else lives so high, and this,” he said, stretching his hand out, gesturing to Ben Nevis in the background, “this she believes is all hers.”
“And her soul? What of that?”
Hearing the cowbell shake in the doorway, Kirk glanced up. Their cow stood in the open door, peering through. Cordaella would not be far behind. “She is not an orphan. She has a father. She is but a wee thing yet; my God would not make me give up my child.”
“This is not Abraham sacrificing Isaac, Brother—”
“Good, because I will not.” Kirk’s black eyes narrowed, the features savage. He had lived too long among the lonely peaks of Scotland, nearly six and a half years; it had been a difficult adjustment, but now he was at ease with no company but his own and the girl’s. “My child shall not be brought up by strangers. I love the lassie too much.”
“If you love her so—” The priest broke off as a high-pitched whistle pierced the air.
Moments later a brown face peeped through the doorway.
“Papa!” The child’s voice, although pitched soft and urgent, was unusually husky for a child so young. Her eyes were pale, a faint shade of gray.
“Come, child,” Brother Lyles encouraged, working a warm smile to his round face.
She had spotted the visitor from afar earlier and hidden herself in the meadow waiting for him to leave. But the hours passed and he—this enormously fat man—remained.
Restless at last, Cordaella returned to the cottage.
“Come, my dear”, the monk repeated.
Kirk suddenly saw her as the brother must. She looked as ragged as any street urchin, only slightly cleaner. Her face and hands were relatively clean, but her long black hair hung in a dirty, poorly braided plait down her back, loose curling wisps in her face secreting those unusual eyes.
Cordaella reached for the open door, pulling it close against her. She hid behind it, leaving only one eye gazing out from behind the solid surface. She felt much better like this. Now the fat man couldn’t see so much of her. She had already decided she didn’t like him. Papa looked cross. Too cross for a sunny day. If Papa was cross, she would be cross. She frowned at the stranger, hoping to frighten him off. Her brows pulled forward and her mouth puckered. The frown was working, she could tell. The fat man did not look very happy.
“Cordaella,” the priest tried yet again. “I have come here to meet you. What do you think of that? I have walked for three days to get here. All the way from Inverness, Do you know where Inverness is?”
“I do not care.” She shrugged, pretending disinterest. Actually, she was very curious but she would never let this stranger know.
“Do not be shy, my dear child. I am a friend of your father’s.” He turned to the falconer. “Isn’t that so, Brother Buchanan?”
Kirk stared calmly at the friar, saying nothing. Cordaella looked at her father, trying to gauge his mood. She pulled on the door, causing the hinges to whine. She was very thin, and her knees, exposed by the short plaid shrift, were prominent, even knobby. Her attention was fixed on the fat man, her head tipping back on her long slim neck, thick black lashes lifting to reveal remarkable eyes. “Are you my uncle?”
Brother Lyles blanched. “Do you know your uncles then?”
“You called Papa brother.”
“We are brothers in the blood of our Savior Jesus Christ.”
“You are too fat to be my uncle,” she said firmly.
“Enough of this.” Kirk curtly snapped his fingers at her. “Friar, explain yourself to the child. Cordaella, hold your tongue.”
Cordaella gave her black head a toss, dismissing her father’s temper. His scowl was fierce, but it hid a heart deeper than the highland ravines. She knew he loved her, he loved her almost as much as she loved him. “Papa,” she asked, giving the fat man in the ugly gown a careful look, “what does he want?”
Kirk threw up his hands. “You’re a sassy thing, Cordaella Buchanan. Ask him yourself if you must know everything.”
“Come, child,” Brother Lyles entreated. “I will not bite.”
“My cow does not bite,” she retorted, scurrying around the friar to her father. “But that doesn’t mean I talk to him.”
Kirk dropped down to the stool and she leaned on his knee, staring the stranger full in the face. She was not at all impressed with him. He was ridiculously heavy and half her father’s height. Pfft! Her small nose wrinkled in distaste. She couldn’t help wondering how much of him was real under the robe. His belly was vast! Could all of that stomach be one man?
The croft interior was flooded by sun, the streams of yellow light falling across the floor through the open door and unshuttered window, all silent except for the sound of the grasses rustling as the breeze sang across the highland meadow. The cowbell clanged softly behind the cottage wall. Kirk was comfortable in the silence. He was not accustomed to conversation, except with his Cory.
Cordaella too, accepted the stillness as the natural order of things. She pressed her weight onto Kirk’s knee, content to say nothing and swing her right leg. The shrift of her tartan skirt was pulled high, her legs long and even her bare bottom tan. All of her skin was the same burnished brown, her cheeks still glowing from her earlier run. As she swung her leg, she yawned lazily. Summer was coming. She loved summer. During summer she could run all day through the fields, chasing whatever came before her fancy.
Cordaella stuck a piece of her hair in her mouth, chewing on the ends. A couple hours ago she had pretended that she was one of the little village dogs in Glen Nevis. Dogs could do as they pleased. She ran here and ran there and sat up wiggling, barking shrilly. How much fun to be a dog. If she was a dog, she would always keep her tongue hanging
outside her mouth, drooling on everything. She smiled suddenly, her eyes lit by mischief. “Rrruff! Rrruff iff!” She barked, fixing the friar with her pale stare, “Rrrf! Rff!”
Brother Lyles pulled back. “What is that?”
Cordaella grinned. “A dog.”
“You have a dog?”
“No. I am a dog.”
“You are a dog?”
“Aye. Rrrufff! Rff! Rff!” She twisted her head from side to side panting. She was a very hot little dog. Her tongue sticking out, she practiced more panting. “Hheheh.”
Brother Lyles looked at the falconer. Kirk said nothing. The monk sighed and pulled himself into a better sitting position, his girth riding high above the cord on his thick waist. The hapless bench squeaked in protest. Cordaella grinned again, the fringe of eyelashes lowering over her dusty eyes.
Kirk watched his daughter curiously, as if she were someone new and not his own kin. If he were to pull away, to send her to Inverness, would she be better off? Would she be happier? He looked down on her dark head, seeing the small cleanly etched profile: her tiny straight nose, the full mouth, the startlingly pale eyes. She was a funny-looking little thing, so skinny, so wild. His own. She was his own.
Only now did he realize that she had survived infancy—so few babies did—and here she sat, no longer a toddler but a little girl of four. No fat on these arms and legs, her slender limbs sunburned and strong. It was easy to see the dark Celt in her.
Brother Lyles cleared his throat. “Cordaella, do you know your true Father?”
“My Papa is here,” she said, pointing at Kirk.
“No, Cordaella, that is your earthly father. Do you know your eternal Father?”
Frustrated she reached back for Kirk’s knee. “Papa!”
Kirk patted her tan cheek, his voice husky. “The Brother means God, Cory. When he says ‘Father’ he means ‘Father God’, not Papa.”
Indignantly she turned back to Brother Lyles. “Of course I know God! He made everything—all the birds, all the bugs. He even made me!”
“There is but one God, my child, and He is the maker and master of every man. He is Lord of all Creation, Lord of Scotland, England, Ireland, Wales, Normandy…” he paused to take a hasty breath before plunging on. “His Son came down from Heaven and lived as man for thirty years, sharing in all the human burdens and sorrows, eventually dying on the blessed Cross so that we fearful sinners, all of us, might know eternal life.” He sat back, “Do you know Him, child, this Savior?”
“I have never met him,” she replied truthfully, “We do not get many strangers here. So far, only two, including you. But the other man was not so fat. He is a page. Do you know what that is? Papa said pages must take messages back and forth. Why didn’t you send your page here?”
Brother Lyles’ Adam’s apple wobbled up and down for a moment. “I am not speaking of a mortal man, Cordaella I refer to Christ our Lord, Christ the Son of God! Do you know nothing of Him?”
“Aye, I know God,” she repeated patiently. “He made everything. He made Papa and me and all the flowers and—”
“But Jesus? You cannot get to Heaven, into God’s presence without first accepting Jesus. Are you unfamiliar with the parables? The great teachings of Jesus our Lord?”
Her delicate forehead creased seriously. “Is he an Earl perhaps?”
Brother Lyles threw up his hands in disgust, crossing himself quickly before rummaging on the ground for his walking stick. As he rose, he said, “Mark my words, Brother Buchanan. Unless you send this child from here, you shall bring destruction on your house!” There was a long span of silence after the friar faded from sight. After several minutes Cordaella walked resolutely to the door and shut it. She lowered the bar across the door, latching it for good measure.
“That will keep the bad men away,” she said, turning back to Kirk.
“Thank you.” He wanted to smile but couldn’t.
She still remained by the door. “What will happen to our cottage?”
“Nothing.”
“But he said—”
“I know what the Brother said.”
“Then why—”
“Because.” He cut her off with a glower. He was sick at heart, sick deep in his gut. Why had the friar come up here, bearing his tiding of doom? Already Brother Lyles had begun the process of taking Cordaella away from him.
She hesitated, still torn. Her curiosity won. “Where is he from?”
“Inverness.”
“He is not a falconer, is he?”
“No. He is a man of the church. A monk of the Benedictine order.”
“Why is he a monk?”
“He would probably say that he was called by God. Most likely he was sent to the church by his family. One son too many!”
She was increasingly perplexed. Nothing the stranger or her father said was making sense. Why was Papa acting so funny? Why didn’t he just answer her questions?
And who was Jesus the Lord? What a very peculiar name. Was he a powerful lord? Was he like her grandfather in Aberdeen? She wrinkled up her face, knowing that Papa would not like this last question. “What do monks do?”
“What Brother Lyles did here.”
Her mouth formed a tiny perfect circle. “Oh.” And she made a face, not wanting to hear any more.
CHAPTER TWO
‡
He left her alone when he went hunting. There was no way Kirk could take the girl with him. He told her to stay inside, to keep the door closed. “Animals cannot open doors,” he would say, “and the only way you would be hurt is by letting them in.”
“But animals do not want to hurt people,” she would answer, having already been taught that animals were good and important to the mountain.
He added an extra log to the fire before leaving, his face already wrapped against the wind and snow. “You won’t go near it now, will you?”
“No,” she said a little crossly, huddling in the deerskin lined with supple pelts. She didn’t like being left behind. It was lonely when he was away, so quiet, so big. He filled the cottage up, took its silence and space, not that there was so much space in winter when the cow lived inside too.
After he had gone, she slid the bar across the door and went back to her pallet on the floor. Curling beneath the fur throw, she watched the fire, the red flames rising between the logs. She remembered how she had burned herself once, trying to capture the fire in her hands. She had never done that again and the burn had healed by the summer’s end.
She must have fallen asleep because she was woken hours later by her father pounding outside. “Open up, Cory. Open the door!”
The fire had burned out while she slept, and, shivering, she stumbled to pull back the bar. As she swung the door open, snow swirled outside in great white gusts, powdery drifts forming just inside the step.
“Careful, Cory,” Kirk said, as he staggered in.
“A deer?” she asked, struggling to close the door as snow blanketed the dirt-packed floor. She bent over to brush back the snow, her fingers smearing the snow pink and in some places red. She smelled her hand. Blood. “Papa?” she said, tracing the puddles of red to his footsteps, pools of it forming by his instep.
“Be very quiet,” he said, his husky voice but a whisper. “Come see what I have.” She tiptoed to him, careful not to push against him. She couldn’t help worrying about the blood though. “Are you hurt?”
“I’ll mind it soon, lassie. But look here now, gentle is it.” He opened his coat for her to see. She stared at the ball of fur uncertainly. “A wolf pup,” he said, his large hand covering the white furry head, soothing the pup’s trembling. “What do you think of that?”
She touched the soft head and felt the tiny nose brush against the palm of her hand. Its nose was cold. Damp. She smiled in wonder. “Can I hold him?” she asked, feeling the pup nuzzle against her hand.
“Keep your fingers out of its mouth for now. He hasn’t been weaned and might be a wee bit hungry. We’
ll need feed him in the morning, as soon as your cow can be milked.”
She held the squirming pup on her lap as her father pulled up his pant leg and began tending to the wound on his ankle. Long red scratches ran down his calf, the deeper of those cuts not yet scabbing. “What happened?” she asked.
“Chose the wrong night, wrong place to hunt. I must have stumbled on the den. Or else they were on the move.”
The pup gave a tentative lick at her fingers and she buried her other hand in its soft fluffy coat. “What happened to the mother?”
“Died.”
“You killed her?”
He wiped the blood from his hands and straightened. Blood had trickled down his cheek, drying at his jaw in a dark clot of color. “I had no choice,” he said quietly. “She came at me instead of running away. Must have been starving, poor thing.” He stared at the pup in her arms. “I shouldn’t have gone out tonight. I thought something bad might happen. I could feel it in my bones.”
“Some things can’t be helped,” she said, seeing the blood crusted on his face and the stain still on the floor. Snow had melted around the door, water running back under the frame. The pup rested his small head in the crook of her arm.
Kirk’s heart tightened as he realized she had already learned about fate. Even here, on top of this mountain, the child knew more than he did.
*
Cordaella turned over, crushing the warm, fragrant grasses of the meadow as she threw her arms out at her sides. Opening her eyes, she stared into an immense blue sky, the clouds sailing slowly, no wind to hurry them today. Something stung her ear and she reached up to swipe it away. Ants, she saw, brushing at her ear and neck. Little red ants. She brought her hand before her face to inspect them. She didn’t mind the biting now. At least she knew what it was.
Suddenly a furry head appeared over hers and a tongue lapped the ants off her hand. “Culross!” she cried, but there was laughter in her voice as she reached up to hug the wolf’s thick black and white neck. “Culross,” she said again, pulling him down next to her. He groaned as he settled against her, one paw stretching out across her midriff.
