“Well, Barbara, I always find it so much easier to do a piece if I have a little bit of personal information about the subject.” Stella had never used personal information on any portrait but lots of artists did so she felt that the lie was not really a lie – it was a generalization and generalizations were necessary when you had a crazy-ass ghost loose in your studio.
“Oh yeah, I’d love to help out. The two protagonists in my book are Robbie MacDougall, who is an actual historical figure, and his love interest, Celeste. Celeste is purely fictionalized. The real name of his love is lost to us so I’m using a bit of literary license here.”
Stella’s eyebrows arched at ‘love interest’ but she continued. “OK, I’m mainly interested in Robbie, of course. What can you tell me about the real historical character?”
“Robbie lived during the later part of the 1500’s and died sometime in the early 1600’s. He was the tanist in Clan MacDougall living at Castle Dunollie in Oban.”
“Tanist? What is that?” Stella couldn’t find any writing paper within reach of the phone cord so she wrote on the wall by the phone.
“A tanist is the second in command in a clan, the Laird’s heir. He’s usually elected by the clan and in most cases is a son or brother – maybe a nephew or uncle – most often a close kinsman.”
“How was Robbie related to the laird?”
“He was a nephew. The Laird had only two sons. Gavin was killed in battle at a young age and another that was not fit for leadership, possibly a cripple.”
“So Robbie was next in line to be Laird?”
“Not actually. The Laird had a brother, but he wasn’t chosen as tanist, Robbie was.”
“Ok, so he’s the tanner…”
“Tanist”
“Right, tanist. When did he become Laird?”
“Actually, he didn’t. He died before his uncle died.”
Stella felt her stomach flipping, her heart stop for one brief second. Robbie’s death was becoming a personal matter of some importance to her.
“How did he die?” she asked. She chewed on the pencil point trying to gnaw lead from the wood. She spit out a piece of chewed wood onto the wall then brushed it away, thinking that spitting on the wall was disgusting but this was not the time to be concerned about it.
“Well, historically nobody knows for sure. The family legend says that he was whisked away by the faeries, another legend says he was killed by a jealous clan member, and another says it was related to witchcraft. It was all very mysterious. There are no grave markers or records of burial so it’s hard to pin down accurate information here. He was last known to be at Kilmartin, near Oban his home. And at that point he just disappeared. What’s interesting here is the stones at Kilmartin. They could possibly have been used in magical rituals.”
Stella’s grip tightened on the pencil, breaking it in two. “Magic?” she repeated meekly.
Stella, still wearing her riding gear and backpack, walked slowly toward the studio, Casper following close behind her. In spite of her trepidation she was inexorably drawn to the studio remembering the feeling of absolute love and wanting to feel it again, even for just a moment. She didn’t believe in reincarnation, past lives or traveling through time, but if any of those things were possible would she be a part of it just to feel that overwhelming sensation of love again? She immediately ruled out time travel because her father’s work had been evidence enough that the 1600’s were an oppressive time for females. She didn’t want to travel to the 1600’s.
But as she neared the studio she had an odd sensation of losing control, being swept into the abyss. She heard a door slam somewhere in her mind and knew there was no turning back now, she was on her way. She placed her hand on the door knob and walked in.
The air was still, the lights were out and she felt nothing. The studio was still. Silent. Casper whined softly behind her and she reached out to him, stroking his head, feeling a calmness coming from him, grateful for the comfort he gave her.
She looked at the portrait, noting the background. He was in the midst of a number of tall standing stones overlooking a body of water. She briefly thought of Stonehenge, but knew that these were different, although similar. Were these the stones that Barbara had mentioned? The stones at Kilmartin. She made a mental note to look that up and for the first time in her life regretted that she didn’t have a computer.
“Robbie?” she looked around the studio, but everything was quiet. “Robbie, I want to talk to you but please don’t take me from here. Let me see you, Robbie.”
In anticipation of great challenges she knew that a modification of belief was required. You could not open up vision without altering your perception. She was quite willing to diverge somewhat from her beliefs because, after all, she had been dealing with magic for years. But not ghosts. Ghosts had minds of their own and this one seemed particularly presumptuous.
She slowly approached the canvas with her arm extended, as if she could forestall any untoward actions by Robbie.
“Robbie, are you here?” Somewhere in her brain she heard a rich masculine voice.
“Aye, lass, I am here. Hold now.” Quietly and then gradually louder she heard the pipes calling from across the Highlands and her breathing was suddenly labored. She reached out to hold on to something – anything, but found nothing to support her. She could not draw a breath, her head was swirling and she felt faint, unable to keep herself from falling. The sound of the pipes was becoming louder, shriller. Suddenly Robbie was there and just as suddenly disappeared. The last thing she heard was Casper barking and then she dropped to the floor lost to blackness.
Chapter Four
Scotland, 1604
Stella opened her eyes to puffy white clouds drifting lazily across a cerulean blue sky, the music of the pipes gone, leaving behind a silence so profound it was deafening. Her backpack was still strapped on, and other than the awkwardness of it, she was not hurting or injured, but felt comfortable and quiet as if she had slept long hours with no disturbance, not even dreams. She was rested – but on alert. She never slept outdoors, finding camping a primitive occupation at best, and here she was sleeping on the ground, surrounded by rocks and tall brush as if napping at midday out in the wild was the most natural thing in the world for her. She remembered rushing in to answer the phone then going to the studio, feeling Robbie’s presence, hearing him and then falling, then nothing. Now she was outside and she had no idea where.
She sat up and looked around her. She hoped she might be in the Texas Hill Country except it was a too green for Texas and she could see peaks on the not too distant horizon, rough hewn mountains tipped with gray clouds. The air was gently warm, not the searing heat of a Texas summer afternoon, when even the birds seek shade and rest from the sun’s passion. She looked to find Casper, hoping that his nearness would be bring her comfort and lend a bit of genuiness to what she thought was an impractical and oddly realistic dream, but he was nowhere that she could see. She was alone as far as she could tell.
Making a quick mental assessment she noted that nothing about her had changed. She still had her riding clothes on, well worn jeans and a white cowboy shirt with lavender detailing, and her favorite cowboy boots, the brown leather kickers she’d had since high school. She shrugged her shoulders to adjust the backpack more comfortably and was glad to have it. She always carried minor emergency supplies when riding and if she was lost, which she readily admitted to, than she was bound to need them.
Had Robbie brought her here – and where was here? She was in a small clearing, about thirty feet across completely surrounded by grey standing stones, irregular in shape and height, looking like ancient sentinels of closely guarded secrets. She couldn’t remember any random monolith circles of large standing stones dotting the Hill Country landscape, and that was another reason to believe this place, wherever it was, was definitely not Texas. She knew immediately that these stones were significant and had something to do with her arrival. So, if this was th
e magic spot then where was Robbie? Had she passed through a portal or had Robbie passed through and come to her? Stella was a creative person by nature, giving birth to masterpieces of illusion and fantasy, but her thinking was based on logic and there was no logic to this predicament. Reason and rationality seemed to be in short supply here and that made her nervous.
Gingerly she got up, wiping her hands on her jeans and picked up her Stetson, slapping it on her thighs to rid it of dirt and leaves. She placed it on her head, the brim back from her forehead allowing an unobstructed view of her new environment.
Robbie had made it very clear that he would be coming to ‘get her’, giving her a time and professing all kinds of emotional attachments and now that she was lost god knows where, possibly in danger, where the hell was he? She felt like she’d been invited to the dance and her date did not show up or even call to let her know he wouldn’t be there. She could not feel his presence, and she wasn’t sure if she should feel fear or anger at the man for dumping her in some place she didn’t belong and not being there to help her out. Was she dreaming this?
If Robbie had come for her would he have brought her back to his time? Stella believed in magic because she was often the recipient of magical items, but believing in time travel was different. Or was it? Was time travel magic? It just didn’t seem possible and if it was possible the one place she would never have chosen to travel was the United Kingdom in the 1600’s. If this was the 1600’s and if anybody were to find her here in jeans, with a backpack full of 21st century items she would surely be branded a witch, or a whore or something else god-awful and that would be the end of her. She’d be barbequed before she had a chance to find her way back to Texas. The population had been a superstitious lot and she had no desire to be the object of their fears.
She slowly took in her surroundings letting her senses post information. She noted the intensity of the sky. Only air with no haze, no smog or pollution particulates could ever be that clear or blue. She could see that beyond the stones, the landscape was rolling hills green with foliage and sweet grasses, scattered trees and a lot of rock.
She was startled at the silence. There was no noise pollution, no background drone of highway traffic, no low humming of electrical wires, no manmade sounds of any sort and the absence of that noise felt oddly liberating, imparting a sense of physical well being. As she attuned herself to her surroundings she gradually picked up the beautiful sound of water moving over rocks and the chirping of birds. She couldn’t remember ever hearing birds so clearly, their songs like conversation, sounding alarms about her disturbing appearance. Were she able she would gladly accommodate them and leave as soon as she could, but she had no earthly idea which way to turn, or if she should stay there and wait for a ghost to show up.
She stood a moment and listened to the water. She had never actually listened to water before but she could hear it, noting its musical quality. Sure, she had been to the beach many times hearing waves crashing and the tides moving, and the memory of hurricanes would always be with her as a testament to the power and glory of moving water, but this sound was different. It was delicate and lyrical, nature’s sweet laughter. She now understood the phrase ‘babbling brook’.
She took a deep breath and smelled her environment. Pine and heather. And dirt, she could actually smell the dirt. Close to her foot she noticed a small plant that looked like heather, but was white, not pinkish lavender, so this must be a different variety. Or maybe it wasn’t heather. Whatever it was, it was pretty and Stella liked pretty flowers of any sort so she picked a sprig of it and inhaled. It smelled like heather so she tucked it in her hat band thinking she would press it when she got home.
She continued her survey noting the stones, the plants, the ground, the air. Wherever this place was it did not yet breathe poisons, but was clean and filled with sweetness. Trees stood tall and strong, thick branches reaching toward the sun, the ground covered in the rich compost of ages past.
She walked toward the sound of the brook she thought to be right past the standing stones, but she stopped at the edge of the circle, unsure whether she should go beyond it. If she went past the circle, would that break the spell and send her home or would it release some other magic that was worse than being lost, all alone with no notion of where she was?
Or would walking past the stones commit her to staying here, trapped forever in a place that could yet reveal itself to be hostile, although so far it had manifested no danger but only pleasant stirrings to her senses. Would stepping past the stones put her in a time and place that she did not want to be? Was that Scotland past those stones, and more importantly, was it Scotland in the 1600’s?
She knew the stones held the key and she had to figure out what, exactly, she was to do. Cautiously she approached the largest stone, and taking a deep breath hesitantly reached out her hand, palm up and lightly grazed the rock.
Nothing.
She looked around and all was the same, no swirling mirages of magic, no loud noises that sounded like tornados or pipes, just the continued sweet chirping of birds. She firmly pressed her hand into the rock, but still nothing happened, as if the magic of bringing her here had sapped them of strength and now the stones were naught but stones, their use dormant until she could find the key to bring them to life again. That being the case she felt that her only option at this point was to go beyond the stones, to leave the safety of the circle, find Robbie and demand that he send her back to where she came from.
She turned and spoke to the middle of the stone circle, “Robbie? Robbie, are you here? Casper?” Her only answer was the protest of birds disturbed by her presence. She thought, again, about the mysteries of her work and how adventure, knowledge and growth only came to those that jumped.
“What the hell,” she said to herself, “let’s do it.” She stepped past the stones, hoping to feel some kind of magical electrical current as she passed them, but again there was nothing. She walked toward the brook hoping to slack her thirst, or maybe find Casper there waiting for her, but alas, as she approached there was no one. She kneeled at the edge of the water and scooped fresh, cold water into her mouth, drinking deeply. The small brook ran with water transparent in its purity, undefiled by the hand of man’s industry.
“Wow, they need to bottle this stuff.” she murmured to herself.
She got up from the edge of the brook and turned around to try to determine her next move and was struck senseless to discover that the monolith stones were now gone. She stared at the place she had stood but moments ago and even though it was just as lovely as before, the stones were now missing. Gone.
Stella shook her head and braced herself. She knew that any kind of normal life seemed improbable from this moment forward. If she had any hope that the stones would be the portal home then that was just dashed to pieces. She held fast to her thin thread of bravery and walked back to where she had awakened. The small white heather plant beckoned her and she sat on the ground picking sprigs of the unusual white flower and tucking them into her hat band, contemplating her next step until her hat was completely circled in white heather.
She looked up at the sky and determined that it was somewhere close to noon, maybe eleven thirty or so. She’d gotten home from riding about eight in the evening so she was missing some time. Or was she? Maybe it was only moments ago that she fell in the studio. She wasn’t sure about anything just now, but she knew she had to make a plan about getting out of here, especially if she was where she thought she was – Scotland in the 1600’s.
“Damn that Robbie! Damn him to hell,” she said out loud, hoping that if he were skulking around his ghost would hear exactly what she thought of him. When and if she ever found him she intended to give him a good dressing down, a well deserved verbal ass kicking for his rudeness and presumption for leaving her all alone like this.
She remembered what Barbara had said, Robbie was last known to be at Kilmartin and that was somewhere In the Highlands. Were these the High
lands or were the Highlands the peaks she saw in the distance? She noted the shadows and remembering what her father had taught her about orienteering she determined that the peaks were northwest, which would make them the Highlands. Okay, she had a direction and a goal. Now she needed transportation.
She opened up her backpack and took out her water bottle, filled it at the brook, returned it to her pack and after putting the pack back on headed north toward the peaks. They looked to be several miles, maybe ten and that made for a long walk, so finding a horse would be a good idea, but she needed to avoid people. Renaissance folks would probably not take to her in her present state of dress so she needed to be discreet, not to mention a woman traveling alone would be highly suspect so caution was of utmost importance. Placing her flowered cowboy hat on her head she began her search for a horse.
After walking across rocky hills for what seemed like an eternity, but in actuality was probably only a mile or two she crested a hill and spying people down in a small vale darted behind a large tree to hide. Edging slowly around the tree she allowed herself a keener glance noting that at the bottom of the hill was good fortune – or bad, depending on how clever she was. A string of horses were tethered to trees and shrubs by a stream grazing. Close by she counted six or seven men in various stages of rest. Some were eating, others leaning against trees napping, while others were repairing or cleaning riding equipment. If she had any doubts about the time and place they were now dispelled as she gazed at 17th century soldiers. They wore odd looking balloony short pants with stockings and waist length skirted jackets with full sleeves. They did not wear boots, but cloddish, heavy shoes and an odd triangle hat that seemed almost like American patriot hats, but not quite. They all sported trimmed beards and mustaches. Considering the warm weather she felt they may have been a tad overdressed and were probably miserably hot and uncomfortable since everything they were wearing was most likely made of wool. That had to itch.
Highland Portrait Page 5
