I was sorely tempted to ignore her and pass the other way. I wanted no part of those sisters and feared speaking or seeing one of them would put me in mind of Mariota all over again, and I had other concerns to deal with today. But I began to worry that perhaps the poor woman had hurt herself or some such thing, to be acting in such a fey fashion. So I turned the horse in her direction and approached her.
I drew nearer and recognized her with surprise, for it was the younger of the two sisters I had seen so many weeks ago gathering their herbs. Morag, I remembered Mariota had called her.
“Sister Morag!”
The woman turned to look at me like a hare about to dart away.
“Is it hurt you are, then?” I asked her, reining in my horse.
She shook her head no. Her wimple was disheveled and askew, showing a bit of cropped dark hair. She wore no brat, just her nun’s robes, and as I watched her I saw her feet were bare, even in the cold. She must have just run outside without dressing for the weather or the chill of the morning. Her eyes looked red, and I could see wetness and tear stains on her cheeks. Even a fool, such as I was when it came to the ways of women, could surmise that she had been crying.
“Can I be helping you? What is it that is wrong? Where are the other sisters?”
She shook her head in answer to my first question, then began to laugh wildly. Her laughter had a crazed and wild sound to it, putting me in mind of the madman from last summer, and I began to grow a little afeared of what she might do.
“It is cold you are. Have you no shoes?”
She shook her head no again.
“Shouldn’t you be going back to Cill Chaitrìona? The other sisters will be aye worried for you. Here. You can ride on my horse, and I will take you there.”
At this the woman darted away, but I followed her quickly enough on my horse and then dismounted. She tried again to run, but I grabbed her arm and when she felt my grip, for I do have good strength in my arms, she stopped struggling and stood quietly enough. I looked down and saw her feet, red with cold, against the white frost-rimmed leaves of grass.
“Look you,” I said, becoming annoyed with the good sisters in general and with this one in particular, “I am unwilling to leave you here to freeze. Why, I do not know. But there it is. So you will be coming with me now, and I will take you to Cill Chaitrìona. Now get on my horse.”
And surprisingly, she did so, without resisting me. I sat her in front of me, and we rode the short distance up to Cill Chaitrìona. I saw her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs as we rode, but I did not know why she cried.
It was soon enough we reached the nunnery and the gatekeeper came running out to meet us, followed by the abbess.
“Sister Morag,” Abbess Brìde said, scolding her as you would scold a child, “You must be coming inside. It’s a fine lot of worry and bother you’ve caused us today.”
I must have looked puzzled, for the abbess turned towards me. “It is Muirteach, is it not? The same one who is working for His Lordship?”
I nodded in assent.
“You seem to be making a habit of bringing women to our doors and leaving them,” she added, with a wry touch of humor I had not seen before in her. “Sister Morag has caused us great worry with her behavior, and we must thank you for returning her to us.”
“She seems upset over something. Are you knowing what it might be?”
Abbess Brìde shook her head. “Indeed I am not knowing. You need have no concerns for her,” she continued, effectively dismissing me. “Sister Morag will be fine now that she is back among us, and we shall take steps to ensure she does not wander again.”
That sounded somewhat sinister. I felt at a bit of a loss as to how to proceed, but I bethought myself of my years at the priory, and the lessons I learned there helped me a bit the now.
“Mother, I rejoice to have restored the poor sister to you. Still, I am gravely concerned for the woman’s health. Might I speak with your infirmarian, to apprise her of the sad condition I found the poor sister in? I would wish for the Lord of the Isles, when next I see him, to know all is well here at Cill Chaitrìona.”
Abbess Brìde did not look overly pleased at this, but she did not deny me. “Very well,” she said, with a tight, pursed look to her lips. She brought me to the same small stone room Fergus and I had visited some weeks before, and I heard her send for Sister Euphemia.
I did not wait long this time before I heard the sound of footsteps outside. A measured tread and a lighter, faster step I fancied I recognized.
“Muirteach, it is you!” Mariota burst into the room.
“Mo chridhe!” I forgot myself and clasped her in my arms and she did not resist. Just for a moment it was, until we remembered ourselves and disentangled, as Sister Euphemia glared at us disapprovingly. But Mariota’s elderflower scent lingered in my senses, and I returned the sister’s glare with a smile.
“Sister Euphemia, this is Muirteach, whom I was speaking of.”
“Indeed.” Sister Euphemia continued glaring at me. “We have met before. You were looking into the death of that poor lad who was slain by the sithichean.” She made the sign of the cross.
It seemed the nunnery, for all its isolation, received its share of the news.
“Indeed, Sister, that was the way of it. And was I not bringing Mariota here as well? She is like a sister to me,” I lied, still feeling a little guilty about our stolen embrace.
“Indeed?” repeated Sister Euphemia.
I felt it best not to pursue that topic.
“I was riding out towards old Gillean’s this morning,” I said, “and found poor Sister Morag, wandering in the cold like a poor amadain. I returned her here and wanted to tell you of what I found.”
“Yes?”
“The sad thing seemed aye distressed, in tears. At first it seemed she did not want to return here. But then she came willingly enough. I am concerned. You would not be knowing what has bothered her so?”
“Indeed and I am not. Nor am I thinking it need concern you.”
“Perhaps not. But she seemed overwrought. And I have been investigating the death on the island—that young Niall—and then that accident with that man from Mull.”
“Aye. One of the shepherds was bringing news of that, just yesterday it was.”
“And so I wondered if this might in some way relate?”
“I can not think so,” said Sister Euphemia, relenting a bit. “Sister Morag knew nothing of the man from Mull or that poor lad. But I am not knowing why she would run away in such a fashion. She has been here some five years. She is a good enough sister and helps me with the herbs.”
“So you are knowing her well?”
“As well as any here do. Sister Morag was a flighty girl when first she came to us, but she has gained maturity in her years here. I confess I am worried about her.”
“As I am. Well, thank you for your help.”
Sister Euphemia turned to leave, followed by Mariota who had been uncharacteristically silent during our speech. Perhaps this was due to her status in the nunnery, I thought.
“Sister,” I asked before they left the room. “Might I not converse a bit with Mariota here, just out in the cloisters?”
“As she is thinking of leaving the world behind her, I can not think you would have much to speak of,” said Sister Euphemia sternly. “But she has not taken any vows.” She considered, and suddenly Sister Euphemia relented. Her hazel eyes twinkled a little, and I thought I saw the beginnings of a smile on her lips. “Very well. You may walk in the outer courtyard and I will walk behind you. But no brotherly embraces, young man.”
I could feel the blush rise in my cheeks and felt like a lad caught out stealing from the kitchen, but was pleased to get a chance to speak with Mariota for all of that. I followed Sister Euphemia and Mariota willingly enough to the small courtyard, where Sister Euphemia promptly seated herself on a bench and Mariota and I could finally speak together.
“And how is it with
you, mo chridhe?” I asked. “Are you well?”
“Well enough,” said Mariota. “I can sleep well here, at least. It is safe here.”
“That is good,” I said awkwardly. “I have missed you.”
“And I you.” The silence lingered a moment while we walked, then Mariota changed the subject in that brisk way she had.
“I was spending quite a bit of time with Sister Morag, Muirteach.”
“Aye?”
“Yes. And I am thinking perhaps she knew Liam MacLean better than she had cause to.”
“Was she confiding in you?”
“Not exactly.” Mariota frowned a bit, and spoke in an undertone to me. “But she would frequently make excuses to go out gathering herbs. She liked to go alone, would be gone for hours, and have little enough to show in her basket when she returned. I suppose she could have met him in the hills. And when the shepherd came yesterday with the news about Liam—for I had said nothing of it here myself—she went all pale. I saw her bite her lip until the blood came. Then last night when we were to be sleeping, I heard what sounded like sobs from her pallet. And then this morning, she was gone.”
We heard Sister Euphemia cough warningly from her bench.
“I must go, Muirteach. But I will try to find out more.”
“And send word to me?” I asked, mockingly. For a nunnery is not the easiest place to communicate from.
“I have taken no vows,” said Mariota, a little defiantly. “I will send a letter. If I can.”
“Aye, mo chridhe. That will do fine.”
And then Mariota was whisked away by Sister Euphemia, and I was left to find my own way out to my patiently waiting horse.
Chapter 15
I left the nunnery, riding hard until I reached Lochan Gammhich and Gillean’s cottage. After all, he had been my original reason for setting out that day, although in all the confusion with the wandering Sister Morag I had nearly forgotten about him. The blue smoke of his peat fire curled up out of the thatching and looked cozy enough to me, for the day had not warmed much. I dismounted and called to him.
He appeared at the door flap, looking a bit confused, but his face cleared as he saw me.
“And it is you yourself. How have you been faring, young Muirteach? I was thinking you might have been returning to Islay by now.”
I shook my head no. “I am staying here the while. Himself on Islay is wanting to find out who was after harming that MacLean that was found here.”
“The man fell from his horse,” insisted Gillean. “Well, it is a cold enough day. You must come in, and have some uisgebeatha to warm yourself. And perhaps a bite of porridge.”
I agreed readily enough, and was soon seated before Gillean’s fire. We spoke of the weather for a while and after exhausting that and other topics, I finally asked what I really wished to know.
“And so, have you seen more faerie lights? Or found more gifts from the sithichean?”
Gillean crossed himself and reached for the protective iron of his dirk.
“No, Muirteach. I am thinking they are satisfied now, with that young boy they have taken. And the other as well, the poor lad from Riasg Buidhe. No, they have been quiet. But what with the bad weather, I am thinking they are safe and warm in the sithean, feasting and enjoying their treasure. And those poor young lads are with them there as well, their prisoners.”
Having seen Niall’s poor body, I did not think he was with the sithichean. But the fact that his body had been found apparently made no difference to Gillean.
“Although they say,” he continued, thoughtfully, “that time is as nothing to them in their faerie hills. So perhaps that young Niall thinks he has just been there for a moment.”
“Perhaps,” I said, not knowing how else to reply. “And have you found any more of their treasure?”
“No indeed.” Gillean took another swig of uisgebeatha. “But I was finding something else they were leaving.”
“And what was that?”
“Some faerie weapons. Here, I will show them to you.”
Gillean rose from his seat near the smoking fire and went over to a rough chest near the wall. He opened it and withdrew a package wrapped in a sheepskin. The sheepskin stank.
“Here it is. Now, you must be saying nothing of it to anyone. For I am not wanting the sithichean to know I have been stealing from them. Or I will be getting into trouble with them for sure.”
I promised I would keep quiet about whatever it was he had found, for Gillean still had not unwrapped the parcel to show me.
“Aye, well, that is good enough then,” the old man said after I had sworn a promise on his iron dirk. He proceeded, with agonizing slowness, to unwrap his parcel. Inside was an arrow, tipped with a worked flint point.
“An arrow,” I said. “Where were you finding it?”
“It is not an arrow,” insisted Gillean, who I was beginning to realize was quite a stubborn man. “It will be one of their faerie spears. They are not tall enough to be shooting an arrow of this size from a bow.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Their arrows will be smaller, like a dart,” Gillean explained. “Which is why you are not always knowing when it is that you are struck. That young boy was killed with a faerie spear. That is what I was hearing. Is it true?” he asked me suddenly. “You were finding the body.”
I agreed that that must have been the way of it.
“Might I examine this?” I asked.
“I would be feeling better about it if you had some iron on you. Do you?”
I showed him my own dirk.
“Aye, I suppose there can be no harm in it then,” agreed Gillean.
“And why were you keeping this and not throwing it back into the lochan for them as well?” I asked as I looked at the arrow.
Gillean shrugged his shoulders. “I will have to be giving it back to them soon, I am guessing. But the weather was not so fine, and my joints were paining me. And so I did not want to make the walk up to that little lochan, not in this bad weather. I am thinking they have more weapons.”
I agreed with him and examined the arrow more closely. The shaft was willow, fletched with hawk feathers. The point itself was of crudely worked flint, attached with sinew. Aside from the point, it did not look so strange. The point closely resembled the one we had found in Niall’s back, but something else about it nagged at my mind. Surely no one on the island worked flint? That was a faerie skill. We used iron for arrow tips, although I supposed if someone was so poor as to have no iron, they might be using flint.
“They say you are a faerie doctor. How is it you are knowing so much about the faerie spears and arrows? And knowing how to drive away the sithichean out of people?” I asked Gillean as I put the arrow aside on its sheepskin and settled back by the fire. I took another gulp of uisgebeatha.
“Och, it is just that I am living alone here. And I learned much of it from my dam. She was a wise woman, for all that she was not kind to me. People would be calling on her for help with many things. But she died many years ago.”
“And do people often call on you for help with the sithichean?”
“Not often. I am just a poor old man living alone in the hills. But I remember some of what my mother taught me.”
“But your mother was not knowing how to work the flint?”
“No, no, only the sithichean are knowing that.” Gillean took another swallow, then said confidingly, “When I was a young boy, though, we played at it. Working the flint. We found some over by the Uamh Ur, and we would play at striking pieces of it with other rocks to make knives and such. Then my mother found us, and she was aye angry. She said the sithichean would be stealing us away for playing with such things.”
“But they did not.”
“They were not stealing me,” agreed Gillean, “for they had already taken me when I was just a babe. I was telling you that story already. That is part of the reason I am thinking they will not be too angered if I keep the spear a wee while unti
l I can make the climb up to that lochan to give it back to them.”
“Who did you play with? What other boys from the island?”
“That Eachann, the one that is still living here. And Mànus, and Calum. We were boys together many, many years ago it is now. And others, but they are all gone now. They were taken long ago.”
“They died?”
“Many died in the plague.” Gillean set down the jug of uisgebeatha. “It was taking Calum, and Mànus. Grown men we all were then, though. And it took my own mother, although she was old enough at that time.”
“Aye. It took my own mother as well,” I answered, feeling suddenly melancholy. It must have been the drink in me.
“She was cruel to me, my mother,” continued Gillean. “And I was cruel to her in my turn. I used to call her an old fool before the plague took her. She was getting so old that she could not do for herself, but was needing me to help her as if she was a baby. I had to feed her, and wipe her wrinkled old bum. And I did care for her, indeed I did, although she was not thanking me for it. No, not a word of thanks did I get from the old bitch.” Gillean took another swig of uisgebeatha, then continued. “She was always saying that she wished the sithichean had been keeping me, instead of that other one. It was hard she was to me, my mother.”
“What other one was that?”
“She would have been speaking of that boy who was taken by the faeries. With his mother. They lived over on the Beinn Beag.”
I remembered Àine saying something of that earlier.
“What happened to them?”
“It was just as I was telling you. Were you not listening?” Gillean put the flask down and looked at me, annoyed. “Must I be telling you again?”
I begged his pardon and the old man continued.
“The sithichean took them both one night. The woman’s parents were saying the young boy was a changeling and were giving him the herbs to eat to drive the faerie out of him. My mother helped them, for she knew of such things. They forced the herbs into him for days, it was. But the herbs were not working, and that night the sithichean were coming and stealing the both of them, the mother and the son. Aye, it was a grand host of the sithichean, right enough. They came riding their fine faerie horses, all dressed in green and red silks.”
THE FAERIE HILLS (A Muirteach MacPhee Mystery Book 2) Page 13
