by Eliza Knight
The old man nodded. “Aye,” he replied, smacking his lips after taking a long drink of dark beer. “I do. I have for years.”
“How long?”
The old man shrugged, lifting his skinny shoulders. “A long time,” he said. “I don’t know how long this place has been here, but it’s been here a long, long time.”
Heather watched him take another drink of his dark beer, nearly consuming half of it in two big swallows. She was becoming more interested in him than she was in eating her burger.
“Have you lived here all of your life?” she asked.
The old man nodded. “All me life,” he said, eyeing her a moment. “You’re a Yank. Where did you come from?”
Heather nodded. “Did my accent give me away?”
The old man snorted, his old face folded and wrinkled. “I served in the Royal Scots Fusiliers back in Hitler’s war,” he said. “I was a young lad, stationed in Italy. It was my first time away from home and there I went, off to war. I was scared out of me mind. But I had some Yank friends that made it all worthwhile. I miss those lads.”
Heather grinned. “Then you like Yanks?”
“I do.”
“I’ll bet you have some stories to tell about Italy and the war.”
The old man nodded, sipping at his beer now. He suddenly seemed somber, as if reflecting on the war he just spoke of and the lads he missed. Perhaps they had died in Italy; perhaps he was reliving that horror once again even at the whisper of a memory. Whatever the case, his movements seemed to slow a bit.
“Aye,” he finally said. “I do have lots of stories, but they belong to me. I don’t speak of what happened in Italy.”
Heather sensed she had offended him somehow and she hastened to keep the conversation going. “I don’t blame you,” she said. “My grandfather was in World War II, also. He never really talked about any of it until the last year before he died. He spent time at Bastogne. Terrible place.”
The old man nodded. “So I heard.”
He let the conversation drop after that, draining the last of his beer. Heather flagged over the bartender and paid for another drink for the old man, who accepted it with joy. Heather hoped that buying him the drink might soothe whatever insult she had dealt him.
“Don’t tell your wife I bought you a drink,” she said. “I don’t want her mad at me.”
The old man took another very long drink, licking his lips. “I wouldn’t dare betray a lass who bought me a drink,” he said, seemingly more jovial than he had been only moments before. “Thank you kindly.”
Heather grinned and lifted her glass to him, toasting their dark secret in that she had bought him more drink than his wife allowed. She took a small sip of hers; he took a big gulp of his. She eyed him a moment, her next statement being very calculated.
“So you’ve lived here all of your life,” she said casually. “Then you must know a lot of local legends.”
The old man nodded. “That I do.”
Heather indicated Lynn, whose mouth was full of the last of her burger. “My friend and I were going to Findlater Castle,” she said. “We’re very interested in it. We’ve heard it’s haunted.”
The old man looked at her, his nondescript dark eyes glimmering. It was difficult to tell what he was thinking but his demeanor seemed to change slightly. He became more… curious.
“Whitecliff Castle?” he said. “That is your destination?”
Heather nodded. “Yes,” she said. “You call it Whitecliff? I read that Whitecliff was another name for it.”
The old man wriggled his bushy eyebrows. “’Tis the name,” he said simply. “Findlater is the old Norse name for it. Whitecliff is the English translation.”
Heather knew that. “I’ve read what I could about it,” she said. “So is it haunted?”
There was that question again. The old man’s gaze remained on her, perhaps something of disgust lingering in the dark depths. Perhaps it was an inappropriate question, something trite given the grand history of the castle. In any case, the old man didn’t answer right away and when he did, it was to a faint shake of the head.
“Some say it ’tis,” he finally said. “Some say it ’tisn’t.”
“Do you know any stories about it?”
The old man looked at her a moment longer before averting his eyes, looking back to his beer. “That American poet wrote a story about it.”
Heather cocked her head curiously. “What American poet?”
The old man took a long drink of his beer, licking his lips before replying. “Poe,” he finally said. “He wrote a story about it.”
“He did?” Heather glanced at Lynn, surprised, before returning her attention to the old man. “What story?”
The old man sipped at his beer as if contemplating the question. His mind seemed to be wandering miles away from the warm little tavern and out among the stones of Findlater, hearing the waves crash on the shore below.
“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,” he murmured, “Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore….”
“The Raven?” Heather recognized the stanzas immediately. “That’s about Findlater Castle?”
The old man didn’t nod. He didn’t even shake his head. He just continued staring into nothingness as if pondering the very foundation of Poe’s tale.
“Poe’s tale speaks of a young man longing for his dead lover, Lenore,” he said after a moment. “Do you know it?”
Heather was hesitant to admit that she really didn’t. “I wish I remembered more of it,” she said. “How do you know that Poe wrote about it?”
The old man looked at her, suddenly not looking nearly as mad or old or bumbling as he had since entering the bar. He actually appeared quite sharp and intense. It was a surprising transformation.
“Because I taught such things,” he said. “I taught literature at the University of Edinburgh for many a year. I know Poe. And that tale is about Findlater Castle.”
Heather suddenly had a great deal of respect for the little old man in the tattered clothing. He could be telling her tall tales but, somehow, she didn’t think so. Something in his expression told her that he was telling the truth. Her burger and her beer were all but forgotten as her entire focus shifted to him.
“That’s amazing,” she said. “Then you must be an expert on the legends around the castle. I mean, living here and all, you must know everything about it. What’s the story behind the woman who wanders the grounds in chains, looking for her long lost love?”
The old man snorted. “Poe took that legend and twisted it,” he said. “He wrote about a man longing for his love, Lenore, but that wasn’t the truth at all. There is tale of a woman who wanders the ground, looking for her lost love. That’s Lenore.”
Heather was fascinated. “So the ghost’s name is Lenore?” she said. “And she’s the one looking for her lover?”
“So they say.”
“Then Poe reversed the roles.”
The old man nodded faintly. “No one knows why Lenore is there, but people around these parts say that very bad things happened at Findlater Castle back in the days of old,” he said. “It was last lived in during the Medieval days, you know. Official records say that the Vikings had it during the thirteenth century but local legend says that they had left long before that and left one man behind. Some say this man, this last Viking, was married to a woman named Lenore.”
Heather was enthralled with the unfolding tale. “So what happened there that was so bad?”
The old man shook his head. “No one really knows,” he said. “Some say that Lenore had a lover other than her husband. Some say she went mad with loneliness. Others say that Findlater is simply cursed with the ghosts of angry Vikings. There have been legends of disappearances there as well.”
“Wow,” Heather said, intrigued and disturbed at the same time. “What’s the story behind the disappearances?”
The old man shrugged. “Only th
at some people have vanished,” he said. “There aren’t many records about that period in time and what we do have is usually only old church records. Local lore is most of the information we have and that gets twisted over time.”
“But people disappeared at Findlater?”
He gulped his beer again. “Maybe,” he said. “Legends say that people who went there right after the Vikings were never seen alive again. Who knows what happened to them? Maybe Lenore’s ghost killed them all or maybe they simply vanished into thin air. We may never know the truth. But if I were you, Yank, I’d avoid Findlater. It’s not some romantic place. You might not like what you find.”
It was a warning. Not a threat, but a definite warning. But Heather loved that kind of thing; she was the type to walk head-long into any adversity. It was part of her nature. She considered his warning a challenge.
“I appreciate your concern,” she said, “but we’re going to visit it just the same. In the daylight, anyway. We should be safe then.”
The old man’s eyes glittered at her, a faint smile on his lips at the oh-so-foolish young woman who was willing to go head to head with an eight-hundred-year-old legend. Yanks were all bold and foolish, he thought, but the world needed them. The world needed the brave.
Still, he couldn’t help but shake his head at the foolhardy miss. She was clearly determined to go.
We’ll be safe in the daylight.
“You think so, do you?” he asked. Then, he laughed softly, as if she were foolish, indeed. “If you hear any tapping, I wouldn’t investigate it if I were you.”
Heather didn’t like the look in his eye. “Tapping?” she repeated. “What tapping?”
The old man turned back to his beer, his eyes taking on a distant cast. The old tale rumbled through his mind, like a trickling brook, and he caught pieces of it as it flowed by. “Tapping at my chamber door,” he mumbled. “Only this… and nothing more.”
“Excuse me?”
“Once upon a midnight dreary….”
Heather was coming to realize that he didn’t seem inclined to answer her questions or even talk much more about it. He just wanted to recite the poem. Perhaps it was the drink; perhaps not. Perhaps she had simply worn out her welcome. In any case, he’d given her more than enough to go on. And go, she would.
Tapping… ghosts in chains….
Heather and Lynn were heading to Findlater, on their own, by morning.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
~ Excerpt from Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven”
Part Two
The dreary, deadly hour….
Findlater Castle (Also known as Whitecliff)
Scottish Highlands, near Banff
December, 1290 A.D.
The winds howled and the waves crashed as the storm raged above the Firth of Moray, a tempest the likes of which mankind had rarely seen. The sky, the land, and the sea were all of one color, something deep into darkness that could hardly be seen. The only things that were visible on this hellish night were the swirls of rain when the lightning burst and the dark and dreary castle hanging on a cliff overlooking the churning ocean.
Against the dark and lonely landscape, two travelers could be seen heading in the direction of the castle. They were struggling through the wind and rain, clearly in distress, the horses moving slowly and stiffly due to the cold temperatures and buffeting winds. But they labored on, across the chill, black earth, moving for the castle of solitude perched above the roiling sea.
There was a road, not particularly well-traveled, that led to the drawbridge that had been lowered to bridge the gap between a tall, narrow gatehouse and the road beyond. With the heavy rains and wind, the road had become a rocky swamp and the horses labored across the road and onto the wooden drawbridge that spanned a deep gap that, down below, saw the swirling ocean. Waves clawed at the rocks as if trying to climb them, ever higher and higher against the cliffs.
The horses were nervous and weary, moving quickly across the wet wood of the drawbridge, sliding on more than one occasion. The horse in the lead was a leggy gelding while the one behind, a heavy-boned warhorse, seemed to move more slowly. Once the leggy gelding reaching the other side, the rider leapt off and grabbed the reins of the warhorse.
The rider of the first horse was small and lithe, but strong. As the storm blew her cloak about, it was clear that she was a woman. She pulled the horses behind her as she trudged beneath the gatehouse, which was unattended, and into the small bailey beyond. The wind whipped around her cloak, nearly blowing it off. It revealed a heavy woolen traveling dress which was now soaked with mud on the bottom as well as water from the rain. The woman was beaten and wet, but still, she refused to give up.
But she also gave up trying to keep her cloak wrapped around her slender body. That was impossible in this weather, and she had long since given up trying to keep her hood on. She simply couldn’t keep herself wrapped up against the storm and pull the horses along at the same time. The elements beat down on her pale, lovely face, revealing black, wet hair as she gazed up at the keep of Whitecliff Castle. She knew the name of this place because her husband, on the warhorse behind her, had told her the name. He was from Scotland, after all, and knew the area. He was the one who had known this castle was here, the only outpost in a desolate land for miles and miles. Water hit her in the eyes, in the mouth, and she blinked rapidly, trying to see through the deluge.
The sight of the keep seemed to spur her forward, feeding the strength in her that she thought was gone. They had traveled so very far and she was spent, but she had to dig in, deep down, to find that inherent power in her that burned hot and quiet when all else was lost. Her entire family had that inner strength and she fought hard to claim it now.
She had little choice if they were both to survive.
There was a small, pitched-roof structure off to her right, across the courtyard, but to her left was the big, two-storied keep. It was built on the edge of the cliff, and a rather long building for a keep. She saw no glow from the windows to indicate anyone was inside. In fact, the entire place seemed abandoned – there had been no guards at the gatehouse even though the drawbridge had been lowered. The woman was coming to think that she, the horses, and her husband were perhaps the only ones at the castle. Pulling the drenched horses up to the keep entry, she tried to move them into a sheltered position against the nearly-horizontal rain.
“Jamison?” she said to the slumped figure on the big-boned warhorse. “Can you hear me, my love?”
The hunched figure, wrapped in drenched woolen fabric with the crisscross pattern so indigenous to the Scottish people, moved slightly. “I am awake,” he said in a heavy Scots brogue. He sounded quite ill with a hoarse voice, dull and deep. “Help me tae dismount and we shall find the master o’ the keep together.”
The woman put her hand on his leg. “Nay,” she said. “Save your strength. I will see if anyone is inside and if there is, I will ask them to come out and help you inside.”
A big hand shot out from beneath the cloak, grasping her slender wrist. “Help me dismount, Havilland,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “I will not let a stranger see me weakened. I will meet him standing on my feet.”
Lady Havilland de Llion Munro sighed faintly at her husband. A proud, strong man from a proud and strong clan, he did not like to be seen any other way.
“But you are ill,” she insisted softly. “You must save your strength.”
Jamison Munro lifted his head, gazing down at the woman he loved. And what a love it was; something that breathed the fires of passion from the depths of his very soul. Everything
about her consumed him. He had been serving a Sassenach warlord on the Welsh Marches, a man who was a friend of his father, and Havilland was the daughter of the warlord’s ally. He’d met her quite by accident whilst defending her castle.
And then, he could think of nothing else.
Havilland’s father was a great knight from a long line of great knights, but the man had no sons, only three daughters, yet the daughters were quite fearsome. After a rough beginning, their courtship had been a great adventure that he hoped to tell their children someday.
If he lived that long.
“Help me, sweetling,” he said as he tossed back the wet tartan, coughing so deeply and so violently that he nearly fell from the horse. But he caught himself, struggling now to dismount. “Just a little help is all I need.”
Havilland gave him much more than a little help; she grabbed hold of him, holding tight as the man laboriously dismounted from his sopping horse. On his feet, he nearly stumbled but she held him firm, directing him over to a dry part of the keep entry where the rain couldn’t get to him. As he sagged against the wall, she lovingly wiped the water from his face.
“I must get the horses into a shelter,” she said. “Let me find someplace dry for them and I shall return as quickly as I can. Will you be well enough while I am gone?”
Jamison waved her off. “Go,” he said. “Take care of the beasts.”
She did. Scampering out into the storm, she took hold of the horses and dragged them back into the courtyard where she found a broken-down stable that was more rubble than structure. But there was a part of it that was dry and she tucked the horses back into that section, pulling off the wet saddles and saddlebags, trying to dry them off.
In a corner, she saw sacks of something that she hoped was grain. Upon closer inspection, it was, in fact, some kind of grain but a good portion of it had sprouted and molded. She pulled out clumps of moldy grain to find that, underneath, there seemed to be a portion that was free of growth. It was barley and it would have to suffice, for she had nothing else for the animals. Making sure they had some water in a bucket, she put the grain in a trough in front of them. It wasn’t much, but they fed on it eagerly.
