“I think you will need to be asking her yourself.”
“Indeed?” The Beaton looked at me with those piercing blue eyes of his, eyes so like his own daughter’s. “Well, you must be explaining a bit of it all to me so that I am knowing the right questions to be asking her. Come along, and let us be going to my house across the causeway.”
He looked around the great hall critically. The feast was well underway, and the MacRuaris were not the only men in their cups that gray afternoon. The MacInnes and my uncle had started a gambling match in one corner, and it looked to be a long evening.
“I am thinking folk here will have little need of a physician tonight. It is on the morrow that they will be having some aching heads. Unless some of these young amadans are drawing blood during the evening.” Fearchar sighed, philosophical. “They will be sending for me if they are needing me.”
I followed the Beaton across the causeway that led to the mainland from the Lord’s castle, and into his neat house. I had first met Mariota in this very house earlier this year, before the events that had so grievously wounded her spirit.
Fearchar offered me some ale and added some peat to the embers smoldering on the hearth. In a short while we were seated cozily enough before a glowing fire, with the good smell of the burning peat surrounding us.
“And so, Muirteach, what of my daughter?” asked the Beaton with interest. “Where is she and when is she returning home? For I do confess I miss her sorely when she is not here.”
This was growing worse and worse. I did not know how to break the news to him kindly, and ended by blurting it out.
“Mariota is with the nuns. Up at Cill Chaitrìona’s near Balnahard.”
“Indeed?” said her father again. “I am not altogether surprised by this.”
I looked at him. My relief must have shown in my eyes.
“You are not?”
“No, lad, I am not. I am not such an unobservant old fool as my daughter takes me for—no, no, Muirteach, do not deny it. She has not been able to confide in me for fear of worrying me, but I have my own eyes, and I have seen how she is. I have seen this sort of thing before after people have gone through some great trials. Their humors are unbalanced and life is hard for them, sometimes for a long while.”
I nodded and took a sip of my ale. “She was saying something of the sort. How she startles easily, does not wish to be alone, and yet she is unnerved by the noise of many people. She was saying she felt safe at the nunnery,” I added bitterly. “Because of the walls and the quiet. She is not feeling safe with me.”
“Muirteach, you are aye hard on yourself,” observed Mariota’s father. “You saved her life, and I am in your debt for that.”
“There was something else as well,” I added, relieved to speak of it with him. “We visited an old witch on Jura, and she was telling Mariota she would never make a healer. I think that discouraged her as well.”
“And who was it you went to see?”
“Her name is Gormal. She is a crazy old amadain who lives in a cave on the west side of the island. That Benbecula MacDonald’s wife had heard of her and went to have her scry to find out what had happened to young Niall. And then when Mariota heard of our visit, she wanted to go and see her. She said she had heard the woman had a remedy for the falling sickness, and she wanted to know of it.”
“That would be my Mariota. I am knowing little of Gormal, although I have visited her—a long while since. I do not think the woman is from Jura, but she settled on the island many years ago. She does know a few remedies, but I am thinking she does not have the Sight, and my daughter was foolish herself indeed to be taking the old woman’s words to heart in such a way. Do not be worrying so,” he added, as he saw my expression, which must have given away more than I would have liked. “I am not thinking my daughter will make a nun.”
“She was saying she wants to take her vows,” I told him.
“Well, that would be some time from now, I am thinking,” said her father calmly. “She will have ample time to consider. And if living in the nunnery truly will bring her peace, well, that is what I would wish for her.”
“Aye,” I muttered miserably. “I do wish her all happiness. And peace.”
The Beaton changed the subject. “And what of these other matters? The bones you found and the murdered boy?”
“Niall was killed with a faerie arrow. But I am not thinking the sithichean were to blame. And Mariota thought the bones were those of an infant—some girl in trouble, I suppose, but no one seems to know anything about that at all, at all. To hear them, all the girls on Colonsay are paragons of the greatest virtue. And now there has been yet more trouble.”
I told him of Liam’s accident, the faerie gold, and the death of the child at Riasg Buidhe.
“So an innocent child sick with some fever died. And someone else on the island has found gold there and is killing because of it,” mused the Beaton. “Well, it is not the first time that men have killed for gold.”
“Aye, but to shoot a child in the back—”
“Indeed. That is a sad, sad thing. As is the death of the other poor boy.”
Fearchar paused a moment, and I thought with a sudden pang of Niall’s poor mangled body. Then my mind filled with images of the faerie trial I had seen at Riasg Buidhe. Surely the two deaths could not be connected. The boy at the village had been ill and died of it, while Niall’s back had been pierced with an arrow. There was no relation. But I said nothing to the Beaton while I sat by his fire, thinking on it all.
The Beaton then continued, more briskly, “There is much evil in the world as you well know, Muirteach. And Niall’s death must be related to the gold. But the poor village child… what profit would his death bring to anyone?”
I admitted that I saw none.
“Now,” considered Fearchar, “about Niall’s death. It can not be Liam for he would not be attacking himself, not in such a way as you’ve described. And you are not thinking it is the MacRuaris—why not again?”
“They truly seemed shocked when they heard of Liam’s accident.”
“Yes, but any man can act. What of the islanders? That Gillean or that Eachann?”
“I do not think they would be using faerie arrows,” I said. “Nor do I think the MacRuaris would use them.”
The Beaton nodded. “Someone would have to have a source for them or know how to make them. And I do not think most men have that skill.”
“Does any man?” I asked.
The Beaton thought. “There might be a few men, outlaws most likely, living in the wilds who might use flint points. If they can not get the iron points for arrows through trade, or some other way.”
“I do not think there are such men on Colonsay,” I said bitterly. “It is a small island, with no outlaws hiding in the hills.”
“Perhaps not,” agreed the Beaton.
We gazed at the embers for a time without speaking.
“What will you do about Mariota?” I finally asked. “Will you go and try and fetch her back?”
The Beaton chuckled oddly. “No, Muirteach, I am thinking I will not. Mariota can stay there as long as she needs to. I think that will be the best. Perhaps after a bit of time there, she will want to return to the world.”
He looked at me, and I fancied I could see his love for his daughter on his face. “Mariota has always been headstrong, Muirteach. There was nothing like forbidding her something when she was a lass to ensure she would do it. And so, no, I think it will be best to leave her there with the good sisters for a while. I shall not interfere with her.
“And so you are back to Colonsay tomorrow, with your uncle?” he asked, after another pause.
I nodded.
“Well, Godspeed to you then, and a safe voyage. Why do you not bide here tonight? You will sleep better than over at the hall,” Fearchar offered.
I was about to decline, thinking I was wanting to go back to the hall and get drunk on uisgebeatha, but then I surprised myself by accepting his off
er. And I did sleep well and soundly in Fearchar’s house, although perhaps my dreams were of his daughter. But I let those dreams linger gently in my mind, and did not speak of them to anyone.
* * * * *
Gillespic and I arrived back in Colonsay late the next afternoon after a slow sail home. A gale had sprung up against us, and the crew had to strain at the oars all the way across the sound in a wet soaking rain, all the more bitter for the November cold. One of the crew, a cousin of Fergus, was from up near the Tràigh Bàn, and we got to talking while we pulled in tandem at the oars.
“Old Àine raised you, did she not?”
The man Iain nodded.
“She is aye forgetful now.”
Iain nodded again. “Were you knowing, Muirteach, that she was not even recognizing me last week when I was up there. And I raised by her like her own son. Old age is a sad thing indeed.”
I agreed that it was.
“She is a kind woman, though,” I added, and told Iain how she had taken me in that day I was returning from Balnahard. “And she brews a good ale. She knows many stories of the old days, for all that she did not remember my name.”
“Aye, she does,” agreed Iain, and we pulled at the oars in silence for a while.
“She was speaking to me of the faerie lights she sees on the hills above the Tràigh Bàn. Were you ever seeing those?” I asked Iain. Apparently he had, for he suddenly became less talkative.
“Dia, I do not wish to be speaking of them, not here out on the sea,” replied Iain stubbornly. “Muirteach, you are a fool for sure to be bringing them up in such a way.”
“You have the right of it,” I said, hastening to change the subject. “I do not know what I was thinking. But old Àine remembers everything. Who were the people who lived up near the Beinn Beag?”
Iain thought for awhile. “I remember a woman lived there with her parents and a child. But I was young when they left.”
“Where did they go?”
Iain shrugged his shoulders. “How should I know? I was just a child. The lad who lived up there was strange. They said the faeries took them all away, and I would believe it.” Iain crossed himself, then swore. “Och, Muirteach, you have got me speaking of them again. I will say no more about them at all. Not until we are home and I am holding iron in my hands.” And this time he did not speak of the faeries again.
Chapter 14
I stopped by Aorig’s after we reached Scalasaig to retrieve my dog. Aorig claimed she was glad to have Somerled leave, although apparently he had been relatively well behaved the days I had been gone. He had only stolen one cheese and little Sean, at least, was sorry to see the dog go.
“I am wanting a dog of my own, Muirteach,” he cried, the freckles on his nose squeezing together as tears welled up in his hazel eyes. “A puppy, like Somerled.”
“Somerled is no puppy, Sean. Look at the great dog he is grown into.”
“Aye, but I want a puppy of my own.”
I found I was strangely unwilling to disappoint my half brother and felt suddenly bad for taking Somerled away from him.
“Well, we shall have to see. Perhaps my uncle’s bitch will be having a litter soon.”
Behind Sean I could see Aorig violently shaking her head no.
“But I do not think she is breeding,” I amended hastily. “You will just have to be coming to Islay to visit the dog some day when I am back over there. It is a fine farm I have there now.” Although the thought of my lands on Islay did not hold the same attraction they once did, when I knew Mariota Beaton to be living nearby.
“Why not come in and sit for awhile, Muirteach,” invited Aorig. “I have some good fresh bannocks and can give you some ale to go with them.”
I agreed that sounded like a fine thing and was soon settled by Aorig’s hearth, watching the cheerful glow of the peat fire with a beaker of her fine-tasting ale. Aorig, of course, had heard of Mariota’s going up to Balnahard and wished to speak of it, although I myself found the topic gave me little pleasure.
“I am not knowing why she wanted to go, Aorig. She was saying she felt safe up there, enclosed by those walls.” I scowled at my ale a moment.
“Safe? From what?”
I scowled harder. “I am not knowing exactly.”
“Perhaps,” Aorig suggested, “what happened last summer was harder on her than she would admit.”
“Aye, she was saying something of the sort. I am an amadan, Aorig. It was I put her life in danger last summer.”
“And saved it again, Muirteach.”
“No, she was simply running away when she had the chance.”
“Well,” said Aorig briskly, “I am thinking she would not have had her chance without you being there. And then she would have been over the cliff with that madman.” She crossed herself quickly. “Thanks to God and his saints that that was not happening.”
“Indeed,” I concurred, but kept frowning at my ale.
“Muirteach, do you miss her that much?” Aorig laughed. “She has only been up there a few days.”
“I do not miss her at all,” I denied, and was about to rise to leave when I thought to ask her of the woman who had lived on the Beinn Beag. My ale was not quite finished. And the dark had set in by now outside.
“Were you ever hearing of a woman up on the Beinn Beag who was taken by the sithichean?” I asked. “With a child? A long while ago it would have been.”
“I am not knowing, Muirteach. I do not have kin up there. How did you hear of the matter?”
When I said that old Àine had told me of it, Aorig laughed again. “Her mind is going, Muirteach. I think the whole island knows of that! Poor old woman. I am thinking I must send Seamus over to the Tràigh Bàn with something for the poor old amadain, but I would not be trusting her stories overmuch.”
I agreed with Aorig and when she asked me to have another glass of ale, I accepted with pleasure. My half brothers and half sister seemed happy enough living there with Aorig and her husband and Seamus. As I sat there listening to their chatter and the bustle of the family while Aorig got their supper together, I wondered what it would be like to have a wife and a family of my own. But that, I realized suddenly, was not like to happen, not with things the way they were now.
The cheerful bustle of the blackhouse suddenly oppressed me, and it was not long before I gathered Somerled up, made my excuses and left to make the lonely climb up to my uncle’s dun in the bleak darkness of that November night. My bad leg pained me the whole way.
* * * * *
I arrived at the dun to find the evening meal nearly completed and my aunt awaiting me anxiously.
“Och, Muirteach, we were not sure where you had gone off to after himself and the others were arriving back from the boat.”
“I stopped by Aorig’s,” I explained. “Somerled was there.”
Strangely, I felt vindicated to know that my theory about Niall’s death was probably correct. There was gold on the island, Niall had found it, and gotten in the way of someone else who had wanted it badly—badly enough to kill a young child for it. But who was that person?
Whoever the murderer was had used an faerie arrow with his bow. Very few islanders would dare to use faerie arrows; it was a brave man who would even pick one up for fear of getting elf-shot. Although as a young boy I had found one and kept it, carrying it in my sack of little treasures. And had feared later that it had given me my limp after the fever took me as a small boy. That had been a short while before my mother had died of the Black Death, long before I had seen the Isle of Colonsay. We had lived on Islay then.
But those musings did not answer the question of Niall’s faerie arrow. Who would use such a thing besides the sithichean? And the sithichean did not usually kill their victims with a bloody wound in the back. That was a human trait.
The killer would have to be someone who had no fear of the faerie. Or perhaps someone who lived on the fringes of society, who had no access to iron tips for his arrows. I thought of Gi
llean, that old man who lived by himself up there by the Carnan Eoin. Although he had said he had thrown the gold bracelet into the lochan, perhaps he was not as innocent as he seemed.
Or perhaps Liam had killed Niall for the gold and then been thrown from his horse. But if that had been the case, where was the gold now? It certainly had not been found near Liam.
Perhaps Gillean, or whoever had taken the gold, had found Liam with the gold and then attacked him. Aye, and perhaps it was old Àine herself, I told myself hopelessly. It did not seem likely to me that a frail old woman had hit Liam over the head with a rock and then stolen his gold. But then, I did not really believe old Gillean had done that either, although I wondered about the death of the child at the village. But that boy had been sick and died of it. Children sickened and died far too often.
And what of the poor little bones in the cave, and the story of the woman and her child taken by the faerie on Beinn Beag? Perhaps the bones were those of that child. The saints alone knew what had happened to its mother—or perhaps the sithichean knew, if they had indeed taken her, and the saints were knowing nothing of it at all, at all.
But now I had seen some of the gold myself, and knew that at least part of my speculations were true. I resolved to visit Gillean again the next day to see if I could glean anything more about his possible involvement in the two disasters. I cursed myself for a shortsighted fool after making this resolution, to be so suspicious of a poor old man. But my cursing did not deter my questions, and I mulled over the possibility of his guilt as I downed some more of my aunt’s good ale.
* * * * *
The next morning I set out for Gillean’s. The sun rose late this time of the year and was just peeking over the mountains as I started out. The air was chill and crisp, the sky a pale light blue, like the little blue of the wildflowers on the machair in the summer. There had been a frost the night before, and each blade of grass was outlined in its icy coating of tiny crystals.
The chill in the air caused me to hurry the horse a bit, but before I reached Gillean’s I saw one of the sisters from Cill Chaitrìona on the hills nearby. She looked to be behaving strangely, running wildly over the land in what seemed to me a very odd fashion for a nun.
THE FAERIE HILLS (A Muirteach MacPhee Mystery Book 2) Page 12
