by Emma Atwell
A spiral brick hearth and chimney sat in the very center of the dome, providing heat to both rooms. Maeve walked over to it and grabbed a few sticks of wood to shove into the flames, then straightened. “Warm yourselves, it's chilly out there. There's soup in the cauldron if you'd like, bowls and spoons are right there.” She pointed out the items as she spoke, her voice somehow managing to sound both businesslike and soothing at the same time. Then she turned to Donal as he drew near. “Now what about this note from the Laird?”
He handed it over; it looked so much larger in her small hand that he had to smile a little. She drew away from them to examine it in the light of the candle-lanterns hanging over her heavy timber worktable. That little, thoughtful frown was back, and while Evan happily filled a bowl with the thick, beefy soup from the cauldron, Donal stood in the warmth from the fire and simply watched her read.
“So they've a high fever and a rash all over, and the swellings. Nasty.” She gave a small shake of her head and walked over to a shelf full of thick, ancient-looking books with covers of carved wood held together with leather strips. She pulled down the top one and opened it on her worktable. Each page was of some pale material, heavier than paper and a little translucent, and covered with strange script in dark brown ink. She looked between the pages and the bit of paper Donal had brought, and turned a few pages. “It seems familiar. Did you have traders in before it started happening?”
“The first family to get it had been out to Skye to visit relations. Might have picked it up there.” Donal found it easier to talk to her now, though his eyes kept drinking her in so much they stung from forgetting to blink.
“They take the ferry?”
“Aye.” Next to him, Evan gobbled soup with loud slurps; Donal glanced at him and saw him staring hard at the witch, a cold, predatory look that made him a bit ill to see. I'll have to
watch him; he's bound to try something if he keeps on like this. He cleared his throat. “Can you cure such a thing?”
“Lots of people from different places being ferried to and from Skye, it's less remote than here. Could have originated anywhere.”
“Oi, what are you even on about, girl?” Evan asked around a mouthful of beef broth and carrots. “Who cares where it came from, your silly cow, point is, can you fix it or not?”
The Witch gave Evan a sharp look, and then turned her eyes back to Donal. “If it's what I think, I certainly can. But if
others of the Clans have been touched by this, up in Skye and all, it may not just be a Durness problem.” She turned a few more
pages, and paused at a roughly inked drawing of a human figure. “Swollen under arms and at the neck...fever...rash. Trouble
swallowing. Sore throat.” She looked up again at Donal. “Three dead. How did they die?”
“Choking from the throat swelling in one case, fever in two others.”
She winced. “I've heard the like from my mother. Troubling sickness. Takes ten-odd days for the fever to break, knocks you down harder than any chill in the meantime. Kills sometimes. Let
me see what specifics I can find.” She pulled down another book and started cross-referencing the two.”
“So, when does she break out the devil-worship?” Evan quipped a bit loudly, and Donal poked him in the side with his elbow. “Ow! What?”
“Shut it, damn you, we're here as guests and there are people's lives depending on this.” Donal turned back to the Witch, who was muttering a list of herbs at herself as if trying to memorize it.
“Field and Devil's Bit Scabious to help with fever, take down the swelling and ease the throat. Ground Ivy for a tonic. Feverfew for the headaches and to kill the illness and keep it from spreading. Garlic...lots and lots of garlic.”
“Garlic? Are you curing a village or making a stew?” Evan scoffed.
She looked up at him, frowning. “Where do you think we got the use of herbs in cooking in the first place? Half of them were for medicine, or to preserve the meat. We just got a taste for them.”
“Oo, well, excuse me.” He offered her a mocking smile, then caught Donal's eye...and the smile faded. He started looking sulky again.
They sat and ate soup while the Witch pored over her manuals and slowly gathered bundles of herbs. Some of them, like the Feverfew, smelled so strong that the horses danced and
snorted when their bundles were exchanged for the gold and meat in the saddlebags. Donal sat with the Witch and traced her
perfect face with his gaze while he struggled to listen to her instructions on how to prepare the herbs in teas and poultices.
Fortunately, she wrote it down on the back of the Laird's note, because by the time they finally finished, his ears were full of his
pounding heart and he would have taken a knee before her with even a moment's encouragement.
“We're in your debt,” Donal said softly to her while Evan gobbled a third bowl of soup off by the hearth. “If there's
anything I might do to help you, call on me, I've no place to be besides town.”
“I'll need someone to come tell me how the cure does in about a week. Meantime, people should touch the sick as little as possible, and rinse their hands with the Feverfew tea should they
have to.” She smiled up at him...and then glanced back at Evan, her smile dying for a split second before she refocused on Donal.
“You are welcome to come back,” she said, and for a moment her smile and the gentle look in her eyes made Donal weak-kneed.
“I gladly would, alone,” he stumbled out, and she muffled a soft giggle with her hand.
“I'll keep that in mind, Donal MacLeod. Now you and your brother should get back. It's two hours' ride in this weather, and you'd best return before dark.”
Her voice was so warm that he practically floated out the door when he and Evan took their leave. A week, and then he could come back and see her again. Their mission of mercy was only starting: Laird Michael would need those herbs and instructions, and then runners to spread the decoctions through town once they were properly boiled up. But that was nothing; with his heart this light he could have worked all night without complaint. He hummed a little as they rode, the Cape dwindling into the fog behind them as they reached the start of the trade road. She smiled at me. She wants to see me alone. I'm over the bloody moon!
“You know, I'm thinking of coming back and fucking her,” Evan said conversationally as he rode up beside him. “She's a pretty piece of ass, and there's no man about or any family to cause trouble. Think she'd make a nice little bed warmer, that one.”
Donal's mood crashed back down to Earth so abruptly that his head stung. “Leave her alone, Evan, she doesn't want you. She wasn't even comfortable having you around.”
“Oh well, this lovely cock of mine will change her mind--”
Rage boiled up in Donal like magma. “Your cock couldn't do much besides make a woman hate you more, idiot. Leave her be. If I catch you going after her, I'll beat you until you're abed as long as the plague victims!”
“Gor, what is wrong with you?” Evan leveled a shocked, wounded look at him that didn't touch his eyes. “I'm your brother, and she's just some c--”
Donal reached over and backhanded Evan so hard he almost fell out of the saddle. Evan reeled and grabbed the leather just in time to steady himself, then stared at Donal in amazement with a hand clapped to his cheek. “You need to leave off talking
about forcing yourself on women, and certainly you need to leave off doing it. I've given you my warning. No more. Keep your dirk
under control or I'll stop keeping my fists under control! Do you hear?”
“Aye,” Evan replied, face collapsing into another sullen pout. But there was craftiness in the backs of his eyes, and Donal felt his stomach clench at the sight.
The Laird was a tall, old man who leaned on a twisted oak cane but still wore his great sword across his back. His kilt was impeccably pleated and pinned at his shoulder with a gold
b
rooch, and his beard was trimmed even neater than Donal's. He greeted them with relief and read the note, then called servants
over to get the cauldrons filled with water and set on the square's broad outdoor hearth. Soon the sharp, herbal smell of the Witch's
medicine drifted over the town, and Donal sighed with his own relief. It's done, then.
Evan stayed quiet and glared all through the boiling and distribution of the medicine. At supper he stared at Donal from across the table as he carved off chunks of coney meat and turnip
with his eating knife and shoved them in his mouth. “Why do you care?” he challenged finally. “What does it matter to you what
happens to some woman? They're good for naught anyway but spreading their legs and serving men!”
Donal sighed through his nostrils and set aside his mug of ale. “I only wish mum could have lived long enough to show your
idiot self-different back when you were young enough to listen. Too bad you killed her on your way out of her womb. You've been
a misery to women since you were born, Evan. I won't let you continue doing it.” Especially not to Maeve.
“I think being raised by a woman while Da was off to war made you weak,” Evan opined. “Picking some little Pagan cow's safety over your brother's happiness.”
Donal brought his fist down on the table, startling people at the common-house tables near their own. He heard the rustle
around him but had eyes only for Evan, whom he dearly wished to strangle. “If your happiness comes from the ravaging of
innocent girls, then I would rather see you miserable! And I'd wager that's the same of every parent of a daughter in town!”
“Ah, you're an idealistic fool. Once my blood's up, I've no responsibility. The girl who caused it is to blame. If you ever used
your own dirk for anything but to piss with, you'd understand my point.”
“If you had a heart in your chest instead of a craven mass of maggots, you'd understand mine,” Donal growled, and Evan didn't speak to him again after that.
He lay awake angry for a long time that night, watching his brother lie there in his own bed across the one-room cottage from
him. Evan of course looked completely relaxed, his eyes closed and that smirk lingering on his lips even in sleep. How did I end
up with a monster like you as my only close blood kin? Is this how God has a laugh at people? He felt bitterness, anger, and
resignation as he forced his eyes closed and tried to match the sleeping man's breathing to lull himself.
He didn't feel worry, however, until he opened his eyes and saw the moon riding high over the clouds outside the window—and Evan's bed empty, the bedclothes thrown aside and to the
floor in his enthusiasm to leave the moment Donal was asleep. Oh God, Donal thought, heart going to ice in his chest.
He dressed as fast as he could and then ran out to the little shed where they stabled their horses at night. Evan's was missing, of course, and Donal knew where he had gone. Maeve, he thought in desperation as he saddled up and mounted. He took the trade road up to the Cape as fast as he could safely goad the gelding, knowing that Evan would remember the little path to Maeve's cottage now that he had been led along it. Fortunately, so would Donal. He only hoped that he got there in time.
3: Guardian
It was actually easier to find the cottage in the dark, for she had kept her lantern lit, and Donal could see the thin line of smoke from the low chimney against the sky now that the fog had lowered to ground level. As he rounded the edge of her cottage he saw his brother's horse tied outside, and the door standing open. Oh God. No.
Inside, he could hear a struggle. Female whimpers of protest, muffled; breaking crockery; thuds, his brother cursing. “Hold still!” Even snarled. “This will be over with sooner if you just give in!”
Donal leaped off his horse with a bellow of rage and bounded through the door. By the dim light of hearth and lantern he saw his brother crouched over Maeve's small, struggling form. He kept trying to push the edge of his kilt up out of the way of his groin and hold her down at the same time, but even bloodied and with a ripped gown she still kept fighting.
Donal crossed the room in two strides and grabbed his brother by the hair, hauling him off of her while Evan yowled in protest. “I warned you!” he roared, and flung his brother back
against the far wall, advancing on him before he could get his feet under him. His head pounded; rage reddened his vision at the
edges, and his jaw stung from gritting his teeth. “Now I'm bloody done with you!”
Nothing in his life had felt quite so satisfying as punching that lingering smirk from his idiot brother's face. He felt a brief twinge of shame, having wished to put his bullying days behind
him for good—but this wasn't about that. He knew what Evan had been about to do. He had warned him not to, and told him what
would happen if he did. And the thickheaded fool had gone and tried it anyway. It was time for his spanking.
Evan kept trying to say something: make excuses, swear, yell, demand that Donal let him go. Donal replied to each attempt with his fist. He drove Evan out the door with punches to his face and belly, while his brother staggered back and guarded himself with his forearms and once—to his immediate regret—actually tried to draw his knife. Donal kept hitting him, using his fists to punctuate his own sentences as he shouted at his brother.
“I warned you what would happen if I saw you misuse a woman again! This is your idea of thanking the lady Witch for saving the bloody town—coming back and raping her?”
“It's not rape! She just doesn't know what she wants—oof! What has gotten into you?” Evan fell over on his butt and crab-crawled backward across the ground as Donal stomped after him.
“I've put up with your garbage for years, and having my own reputation besmirched by association. I'm done with it! If you're this much a criminal, then you're no brother of mine! Now get off back to town while I clean up the mess you made! Go!” The last word was so loud that it rolled through the fog.
“Bloody Hell, you've gone mad,” Evan mumbled as he dragged himself up the side of his horse by the stirrup. Donal
cuffed him in the back of the head to motivate him; he scrambled into the saddle and rode away in a burst of scree, looking back
over his shoulder at Donal in fear once before he went around the bend and out of sight.
Donal turned and ran inside. “Maeve!” he called out, unable to keep the anguish from his voice.
She was no longer on the floor where Evan had pinned her, and he looked around frantically. He heard a faint sob from
beyond the curtain, and hurried up to it. “Miss Maeve, please, I've driven him off. Are you all right?”
More sobbing. “He'll just come back again once you're gone!”
Donal set his jaw. “Then I'll stand guard until he gives up.”
The sobs fell silent. After a little, he heard the rustle of a heather-stuffed mattress, and then her little feet padding across the floor. She came out, a shawl wrapped around her torn gown and blood crusted around one nostril. The sight of it put his heart in his throat, and it was all he could do not to step forward and cradle her against him. Instead, he dropped to his knees before her, startling her a little.
“I am so sorry, Lady Witch,” he breathed hoarsely as she stared down at him. “My brother's got some madness, or perhaps he was born without a heart. I've tried to keep him out of trouble, but he's stubborn. I came as soon as I realized he'd got loose and was on his way back here.”
A fresh tear tracked down her bruised cheek, and he stared at her in anguish. Her lips trembled, and it took her a moment, but finally she spoke. “Don't leave,” she whispered, and the pain and fear was mixed with a desperate loneliness he would never have fathomed hearing there.
“That sort of thing is why my mother moved us out of town. She was a widow, hoped I would find a husband one day. But
&
nbsp; when women live alone, even in a very small town, there are always men about like your brother to give us trouble.” Maeve sat
at the far end of the broad shelf the hearthstone made in her wall, pressing a poultice to the bruise on her cheek. She sat a little
stiffly, and her pale skin looked a bit drawn from her ordeal, but her voice stayed calm. The sharp smell coming from it was of no
herb Donal was familiar with, but it seemed to do a good job of soothing her pains. He himself sat on the floor at her feet like a
loyal hound, unable to draw away from her, but not daring to touch until she gave him leave.
“It's...common, then?” He couldn't believe it. Men like his brother were common? His tone was so crestfallen that she smiled up at him sadly.
“Not common, but common enough to endanger us. And since the men who do such things aren't kept in cages for public safety, and no one much cares what they do save the odd good man like you, we left.” She sighed. “I understand you've tried with your brother. And it must be hard to be yoked to such a man. He's your blood, but then he does things that hurt people and horrify you. If you could see your face right now....”
“My brother's been my responsibility since he was twelve, but he's grown now. I think it's time I stopped looking after him. God's truth, I'd rather he wasn't around.” He shook his head, knuckles still stinging from splitting them on his brother's face, and looked at the packed clay floor. “To think you would have to hide from men...and then I led exactly the sort you were hiding from to your doorstep. I'm as bad in my own way as he. I can only but beg your forgiveness for being an unthinking fool--”
