THE FAERIE HILLS (A Muirteach MacPhee Mystery Book 2)

by Susan McDuffie

  The same dour-faced sister opened the gate to me.

  “I am here to fetch Mariota Beaton,” I explained. “The one who’s been staying here the while.”

  As though the nunnery had many women there on retreat. There were probably no more than fifteen sisters in the whole house.

  I was left to drum my heels in the courtyard awhile, and eventually Mariota emerged, embraced the dour-faced sister, who actually smiled at her, said her good-byes and turned towards me.

  I scanned her face, thinking perhaps that after her days of retreat she would look different, and was relieved to see her eyes just as blue, her hair just as golden. I am not sure what I expected, but my heart jumped a little when I saw her smile at me.

  “And so, Muirteach,” she said, “you’ve come to fetch me back.”

  We spoke little until we had ridden some distance away from the nunnery and were alone among the heather hills. I felt shy, almost as if I did not know her. Too shy, indeed, to be my usual surly self.

  We let the horses set their own pace, not a quick one. It was Mariota who got the talk flowing between us again, asking what we had discovered during her time away. I told her of our visit to Gormal, and the trip to Uist. I told her of the wee boy who had died over at Riasg Buidhe. It seemed I had much to tell her. Then, finally, I asked her of her time with the nuns.

  “My stay was pleasant enough, Muirteach,” she answered. “I helped the two sisters with the herbs and showed them some new remedies they might add to their store. I felt safe there, enclosed by that wall. No one could come in.”

  I thought grimly to myself as I listened that a community of women was not all that safe, although in fact the times were safer than those of olden days, when the Vikings raided even Iona. And Colonsay, as well. No one raided monasteries and nunneries these days, as she had said. No doubt she was safer there after all.

  “I am wondering you were not wanting to stay,” I said, “what with feeling so safe there and all. As if all the men of His Lordship could not keep you safe.”

  “The place was restful enough,” she answered, not being drawn by my tone of voice. “Perhaps I will go back someday. There, or to the nunnery at Iona.”

  We rode on a pace. I could think of no rejoinder and wished I had not asked the question at all.

  “Although,” Mariota continued after a bit, “all was not total harmony there.”

  “Indeed?” I asked, steering my horse away from a particularly succulent patch of grass he was showing too much interest in.

  “No. Even in the infirmary the two sisters were not getting along all that well. The older one, Sister Euphemia, was always finding fault with Morag. And Morag did not seem to be especially happy helping there. She can barely tell one leaf from another.”

  “Is that so?” I asked absently. Truth to tell, the less I heard of the sisters, the better it suited me. But Mariota seemed to want to talk of it all, and I did not want to appear unattentive.

  “Yes. I am thinking Morag is not all that happy to be among the nuns. She was a younger daughter of a minor chieftain in Mull, and there was little dowry for her. And her father had prayed for a son, which he got off his second wife, and had promised his younger daughter by his first wife to the church if his prayers were heard. And so Morag was sent to Cill Chaitrìona.”

  “How many sisters are there altogether?” I asked, not wanting to hear more of women promised to the church.

  “There are thirteen. The abbess is from Islay, from Finlaggan. She is a cousin to His Lordship. And Sister Euphemia is a Colonsay woman. But they are from all over the Isles. There is even a sister there from Harris.”

  “Indeed?” I asked, wishing I had something else to speak of. Then I remembered she had not heard of my speech with Gillean, and I told her of it.

  “Well, there was little talk of the sithichean in the convent,” Mariota said. “There was not much talk at all, and none of it was of the faerie. Nor of gold.”

  “However that may be,” I said, “this makes two pieces of gold that have been found near the Carnan Eoin. And faerie gold or no, I am thinking people would kill to get it.”

  It was just at that point that we neared Beinn Beag, and Mariota suggested we stop and look around as the horses needed a rest.

  “As if I haven’t searched the area before.”

  “Aye, Muirteach, but two sets of eyes see more than one does. And after my weeks in the convent, I feel I am seeing everything afresh this day.”

  The rocks there appeared as undisturbed as ever. But it was Mariota who found a few strands of woolen thread caught on an old thistle nearby. And the thread looked to be the color of the plaid that Niall had been wearing by all accounts on the day he disappeared.

  * * * * *

  The sun went down early so close to Samhain, and although we looked over the area, we found nothing else, and rode back to Dun Evin saying little. My aunt fussed over Mariota and made much of her. The Benbecula MacDonald was well-disposed towards the daughter of the famous healer Fearchar Beaton. His wife, who I was liking less and less, pestered Mariota continually with requests for headache remedies and sedatives and such things, so we had little chance to speak more that evening. In addition, Liam MacLean had returned from Mull on more business from Duart with my uncle.

  He sat next to Mariota as we ate and the two conversed, but from where I sat, near the Benbecula MacDonald, I could hear little of what they said. All in all it was a harmonious evening, with no thrown chessboards or drawn swords. Apparently Ranald and my uncle had taken their pledge to heart, and Ranald seemed to have curbed his wife, for she made no wild accusations even after we showed them the threads we had found clinging to the gorse. She simply withdrew to her quarters, where we heard the sound of weeping.

  The next day Liam MacLean left the dun early, to go riding, he told Gillespic. He seemed content to go on his own and my uncle, busy with other affairs, let him go. Mariota went down to Scalasaig to visit with Aorig and the bairns. I wrote some letters for my uncle having to do with his business with the MacLean of Duart and somewhat grumpily waited for Mariota to return. While I waited I spoke with my aunt, who was overseeing preparations for the upcoming Samhain—the speckled breads must be baked, and other foods prepared for the feasting. We were interrupted by Rhoderick and some of the other men who had been out hunting. He stooped as he came in the kitchen doorway, for Rhoderick was a tall man, shook off some raindrops, and dropped a great pile of coneys almost literally in my aunt’s lap.

  “And are you not the grand hunter,” smiled my aunt, looking up at him approvingly. “Will you be wanting ale, Rhoderick? Aye, I can see that you will. When have you ever refused it? Why I am bothering to ask you that I do not know,” said my aunt as she filled a mether with drink and handed it to him. “You had good hunting, I see.”

  Rhoderick nodded. “We ran into that MacLean from Mull. Over on the north side of the island, he was. What he was doing there, I do not know.”

  “He was borrowing a horse from the MacPhee and was going out riding. Before even the porridge was ready this morning, he was leaving. It must be he is just keen on riding,” my aunt answered. “And the Tràigh Bàn is a beautiful sight, no matter what the weather.”

  “What was he doing at the Tràigh Bàn?” I asked.

  “It was a ways he was from us there. He was walking his horse when I saw him, just. We hailed him. He waved but did not approach us,” answered Fergus.

  “Doubtless he was intent upon enjoying the view,” I said.

  My aunt glanced at me. Liam MacLean was all that I was not. Tall, with blond hair and a beard, accounted handsome, I guessed, by most women. He had often been to Colonsay and today, thinking of his good looks, and in particular the attentions he had paid to Mariota at the dinner the night before, put me in a black humor. No doubt a brawny man like himself would make her feel safer than a scrawny cripple.

  I myself am not overly tall. My hair is dark and my eyes an unremarkable gray, although
for some reason my aunt considered me attractive, and used to tease me about it. I was not in a mood to be teased that evening.

  Of course, I told myself sternly, I did not care what Mariota felt. If she wished to flirt with a handsome stranger or shut herself up in a nunnery, it was all the same to me.

  “Well, when he returns, Muirteach, you can be asking him why he went riding if it is important to you,” Aunt Euluasaid said and handed me my own mether of ale with a sympathetic look, which for some reason irritated me the more.

  “I’m going out,” I said shortly after I had drained the ale. And I rose from my seat in the smoke-filled kitchen and left.

  I walked down the hill towards Scalasaig. The sun was already sinking low towards the west. I shivered, for the damp was cold and the early darkness had something not altogether canny to it. As I neared the bottom of the hill, a horse and rider nearly ran me over. He pulled up short to avoid trampling me, and I glared resentfully up at Liam MacLean through the dusk.

  “And where is it you’re off to, Muirteach?” he called jovially.

  “Just down to Scalasaig. And you? Where are you coming from, then?”

  “I was just up to the north of the island a bit. It is a fine bit of an island, this Colonsay.”

  I bristled a little at hearing my home called a “bit of an island.” Although truth to tell, Colonsay is much smaller than Mull, or even Islay for that matter.

  Liam dismounted and made as if to walk his horse up the hill to the dun.

  “I’m off to Donald Dubh’s,” I offered, surprising myself. “Come with me, then. His wife brews fine ale.”

  Liam looked surprised, as I was myself at my offering. But he shrugged, and said, “Well enough.”

  And so we reached the village and the alehouse.

  What passed for a tavern in Scalasaig was really a largish house with the ale-pot standing on a pole in front of it. And as Donald’s wife was a good brewer, since Donald himself had made a uisgebeatha, the place was often busy, as it was this late afternoon.

  The talk died away for a moment as we entered, and folk stared at Liam with interest, although on a small island like ours, most everyone knows who everyone else is, even visitors. We got some ale and some uisgebeatha, and settled ourselves on a bench by the fire.

  “And what were you finding up to the north?” I asked Liam as the whiskey settled itself in my gut and the afternoon began to seem less onerous. I did not really expect a truthful answer. Nor did I feel I got one.

  “I was out for the deer. But saw only a coney, too bedraggled with all the rain it was to hop out of harm’s way.”

  “We have been searching for that Niall since you were last here. You were not seeing anything of him at all?”

  Liam smiled almost apologetically. “Not a trace. It is a sad thing, that. No, it is just that I am liking the view from the Tràigh Bàn. It is a lovely little beach, that one. And I enjoy riding.”

  A man sitting close to us overheard us, and spat and crossed himself. “That is aye foolish of you. You would not be knowing, as you are a stranger here,” he interjected, “but Muirteach here should have been telling you of it, for he is an island man.”

  “And just what is that?” asked Liam with an amused smile.

  “The sithichean. You would not be wanting to disturb them. They have been seen in the Tràigh Bàn, and over by the Beinn Beag. Was it not my cousin himself that was seeing them over there, just the month or so past? And they were stealing that poor amadan, were they not, Muirteach?” the man added accusingly. “Two children now. The poor bairn from Riasg Buidhe and the boy from up at the dun. For you have not been able to find him—no, indeed they have made away with that poor boy altogether.” He spat again and drank some more whiskey. “Indeed, I should not be speaking of them at all, not now, so close to Samhain. It is this whiskey that does it. I’m away from here.” He started to rise.

  Liam laughed. “I’ve seen no sign of the sithichean there. Just a fisherman or two, an old man out chasing his goats, and some women gathering herbs. But perhaps they will not be showing themselves to me as I am a Mull man,” he added placatingly as the other man bristled a little. “I thank you for your warning, for it was kindly meant. Here, let me buy you another drink.”

  This offer was readily accepted, and the man settled himself back in his seat. Still, the talk in the tavern lingered on the topic of the missing Niall, with many backward looks into the shadows, as if the speakers thought to find the sithichean themselves sitting there drinking claret or ale among us.

  “I was hearing of a man,” one speaker said. “And he married a young girl. From Tiree she was, I am thinking. And such a spinner she was, the thread never broke, and whenever he was coming home the house was neat as a pin and all. But he never could find her at her work whenever he was coming home. And then the lass had a bairn, but the child was puny and weak and would not drink milk, but was wailing all the time. Then one night the man dreamed, and his wife was in his dream speaking to him, and she was telling him that the sithichean had made away with her and the bairn, and that to be getting them back he must be putting them both to the fire, and then the sithichean would be letting them go.”

  “And so, what happened?”

  “The man tried with the herbs and such things, but the babe still pined. And it would not thrive on the mother’s milk, for it was faerie milk and could not sustain even a changeling. They kept at her for days and days, but the lass would not admit she was of the sithichean. Until finally the man had no help for it. He put both her and the babe to the fire.”

  “Dia—”

  “And just as he was laying the babe on the fire, there was a huge whirl of wind outside, and there was the host of the sithichean riding past his house. The man ran outside and there was his wife herself, seated on a silver horse. Dressed in fine silks, she was, being carried away by a faerie lord, and she was calling out to him. He grabbed for the bridle, and held onto it and grabbed at his wife, and didn’t she change her shape into all manner of things—an adder, a ferret, a red fox—and finally he threw the false wife on the fire as well. Although her cries were piteous to hear, he knew it was just the faerie wife that was wailing—” The speaker took another swallow of uisgebeatha. “And then there was a clap of lightning all around the house, and the host of sithichean disappeared into the sky along with the changelings, and were their cries not horrid to hear, for they had been cheated out of the woman and her child. The man found his wife and son outside where the faeries had dropped them, and the babe was hale and hearty and grew well.”

  “And what of the man and his wife?”

  “The sithichean had their revenge on him, for his cattle sickened and died. And he himself drowned some time later. “

  “And the wife?”

  “She died as well. But the child grew up. He was a great hand with horses, that boy. And a good smith, so you know he could not have been of the sithichean, since he worked with the iron. But this was long ago. When my auntie was a young girl it happened. I heard of it from her.”

  “And wasn’t there another changeling over in Kintyre? But that one they were not getting back from the sithichean. It was not speaking or walking, although it had five years, so it must have been a changeling indeed.”

  “Aye, if the sithichean had the human child for so long as that, they’d no be wanting to part with it.”

  I shivered at all this talk and drained my cup, thankful that no one had mentioned the bones of the infant we had found in the cave. The talk seemed not to affect Liam however, and soon enough the topic changed to hunting. It seemed that Liam was something of a hunter, or claimed to be at least, and was not shy to be speaking of it either. He started to tell of yet another stag he had pursued over half of Mull, and I grew less and less interested. But we stayed a bit longer, until finally I reminded him they would be feasting up at the dun and he agreed to leave. We made our way back towards Dun Evin, Liam’s horse following obediently behind us as we s
tumbled up the hill. Somehow we managed not to fall down the steep path in the process, for the moon was not yet up and we were somewhat the worse for drink.

  We entered the dun, where we found the evening meal well underway. Mariota evidently was spending the night at Aorig’s, for I did not see her at the table. I found I had little appetite, and excused myself early to sleep uneasily, dreaming of shining hordes of sithichean who lapsed like quicksilver through my hands as I tried to grab and hold them.

  Chapter 10

  I awoke the next morning with a new sense of resolve.

  Everything seemed to center around the north of the island, around Balnahard and Carnan Eoin. And so, the skies clearing, I set out towards the area again.

  I had asked Mariota to join me, but she did not. “I have not been feeling well, Muirteach,” she said. “I am thinking I will just stay here at the dun today and help your aunt with the preparations for the Samhain, or perhaps I will be visiting with Aorig again. I am not feeling like riding up to the end of the island.” And so I went without her, taking only Somerled, who loped alongside my borrowed horse.

  We made good enough time to the north of the island, although the sky was leaden and the wind blew cold, pushing us onward. I wrapped my brat tightly around me, but still I felt the damp creep through the wool like the unseen visitors from the other world that silently entered our dwellings at Samhain. I passed the Tràigh Bàn, not so golden today under the gray clouds, then started the climb between the summits of the two hills towards the tumbled stones that were the remnants of the cairn there. There were some massive stones around the outside of the mass of earth, which was dwarfed by the greater height of Carnan Eoin to my right and the Beinn Beag farther up the track on the left.