THE FAERIE HILLS (A Muirteach MacPhee Mystery Book 2)

by Susan McDuffie

  “They have gone,” reported a breathless Seamus, winded from running down to the cove and then back up the steep path. “Their small boat is gone.”

  “And ours?” I asked, remembering what had happened last summer when another boat of my uncle’s had been sabotaged.

  “It is still there where we beached it. It does not look disturbed,” he added, his voice sharp with anxiety.

  “Well, we will be inspecting it before we are sailing away in it. Do not worry, Seamus. It will be seaworthy.”

  “Where would they go to ground?” Seamus asked.

  “Surely not back to Colonsay. No, now I am thinking they might just have sailed around the island here, to another bitty cave someplace. There are caves up by Corpach where they might be hiding. Now that we know who they are.”

  “Aye,” agreed Fergus. “Well, there is nothing I would rather be doing today than to be hunting for that bitch and her changeling. My head is paining me something awful, indeed.”

  So we set out, spending that day and the next searching the many caves along the west coast of Jura for Gormal and her son. But we were not finding them.

  * * * * *

  We returned to Colonsay three days later, disheartened. The witch and her son had vanished. Perhaps, I thought, they had returned to the sithean, the faerie hills indeed, for we found no sight of them, nor of their small boat. After we gave up combing the coastline, we crossed the sound and finally saw the familiar bulk of Colonsay loom blackly in our vision as we pulled into the harbor at Scalasaig. We beached the boat and then, frustrated, I headed straight for Donald Dubh’s, accompanied by Fergus. Seamus went with us happily enough, but the other man had a young wife waiting at home and quickly left us.

  “Will not your mother be wanting to see you?” asked Fergus.

  Seamus hesitated a moment. “Perhaps she will not be knowing the boat has put into the harbor. I will stay just a while and have some ale.”

  Seamus had worked as hard as any of us at the oars and the sailing. He had proved himself growing out of his youth and into his manhood, and so I did not wish to gainsay him his ale with us. We all filed into the alehouse through the rough hide door and settled ourselves on benches and stools by the glow of the peat fire.

  Donald Dubh’s wife brought us some ale and some uisgebeatha, and I for one was glad of the fire of the whiskey as it coursed down my throat. The thirst was on the men and on myself, and it was not taking me long to drink more than perhaps was wise. I was just relaxing in the warmth of the fire and of the drink when the door flap raised and in walked Aorig. Seamus saw her first.

  “Mother—”

  “There you are, Seamus. I was hearing you all had returned and was wanting to see you.”

  I looked to see if Aorig was angry; in the dim light of the tavern it was hard to be certain, but I though I saw a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. She did not look to be put out to find Seamus here. He was growing older, after all, and it was no secret that Aorig’s husband spent enough of his time in this tavern as well.

  “Well, and what is it?” asked Seamus a little defiantly.

  “It was just that I was wanting to see with my own eyes you were home safe. No more than that, my son. No, it is Muirteach who might be wanting to stir himself and head up to Dun Evin. You are fine, son. Finish your ale, for I am thinking you have earned it these days.”

  “And why would I be wanting to head up to Dun Evin?” I asked Aorig.

  “It is just that Mariota has returned from Cill Chaitrìona.”

  “She is back?” I said stupidly, wishing I had not drunk so much so quickly.

  “Indeed she is,” continued Aorig, smiling more broadly now. “And staying again with your aunt and uncle. But it is you she has been asking for.”

  I did not rush out of the tavern at these words, although part of me wished to fly like the wind up the hill to the dun. But I can not fly like the wind, and I limp.

  Instead I finished my ale, not wanting to appear over-eager, and bought another round for the crew as I settled up the bill. And then, finally, I rose and left the tavern, taking a torch with me. By the flicker of its light I slowly picked my way up the path to the dun, accompanied by Fergus.

  * * * * *

  My aunt and uncle were glad to see me, but I paid little heed to Euluasaid’s warm words of greeting. Instead, my eyes roved the smoky darkness of the hall searching for Mariota. I did not find her at first, and I wondered if Aorig had been lying when she spoke. I sat down on a vacant bench near Gillespic and took a drink of ale, but all the time my mind was as flighty as a young colt, running this way and that in the pasture. Until finally I calmed enough to sense someone standing next to me. It was Mariota, holding a pitcher of ale.

  “I was wondering, just, when you would see me,” she said as my eyes met hers.

  “I’ve a sad tendency to poor-sightedness.” I felt awkward and tongue-tied, as though I spoke with someone I did not know.

  “Are you wanting more ale?”

  “That would be a fine thing. And yourself? Sit down and drink some with me.”

  Mariota did so, pouring the mazer full again for me, and took a sip of it herself. I looked at her sweet face and felt joy that she was no longer in Balnahard.

  “And so you were leaving the nuns?” I asked after a moment when Mariota had not spoken.

  A shadow crossed Mariota’s face. “I fell out with the abbess. She felt I had a nature not submissive enough.” I thought I saw an angry glint in her blue eyes, in the dim light of the hall, before she continued. “And I may burn in hell for it, but indeed I myself felt I was not as obedient as might be. Nor did I have sufficient desire to become so. Not when her rule was so petty.”

  “Petty?” I asked.

  “Aye,” said Mariota, warming to her subject a bit. “Petty and cruel. She is not a kind woman and rules her little flock as a tyrant would.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. It was after you visited that last time. She had me do penance for speaking with you. She said I had been too forward.” Mariota stopped speaking a moment and took a long swallow of ale. I did not take my eyes from her, watching her while she drank. “I knelt all night in the chapel saying my rosary, but I did not feel I had done aught amiss. And I thought on it more for a few days and was thinking that Balnahard was not the place for me.”

  “And so you were just walking away then?” I queried.

  “Well, I was thinking on it, you see, and then something else happened and that decided me. And yes, I left. I was fair worried to do it, but I could not stay.”

  “Mo chridhe, you should have sent for me.”

  Mariota smiled a little wry smile.

  “That is aye kind of you Muirteach, but I did not know how to be getting word to you.” She paused for more ale, then continued. “I told them I would be leaving at the morning chapter meeting. I had already gathered my things into a bundle, and then wasn’t I picking it up and walking away from them and out of there. And I am feeling better for having done it.”

  “They did not try and stop you?”

  “No, they did not.” Mariota made another face, as if she had tasted something bitter. “I am thinking that the abbess was as happy to see me leave as I was to go. I am not thinking she liked me much.”

  She took another swallow of ale, and poured more from the pitcher into her beaker.

  “But I had to leave the poppy juice and the other tinctures there. They were a gift to the sisters, and I could not be taking them back from them.”

  “Do not be worrying about that, mo chridhe. Your father can get more poppy juice.”

  Mariota scarcely seemed to notice my comment or the endearment in her rush to tell me her story.

  “She was saying I was headstrong and proud and impertinent, and would not let me work in the infirmary as I had wanted to. Not that anyone was sick, not when I first arrived. But I could have been helpful in making remedies. For all that I may not be a grand healer like
my father, still I know a bit about herbs. But she would not be hearing of it, and she set me to scrubbing the floors and whitewashing the walls.”

  I could have said that Mariota was indeed headstrong to be running off to the nunnery and then out of it again within just a few weeks, or that she was indeed a fine healer. But I found that I was so happy to be sitting next to her in my uncle’s hall with the ale loosening her tongue, the scent of her elderflower scent filling my nostrils and her sweet body sitting close to mine on that rickety bench that I did not comment. Instead I took another drink of my own ale and let Mariota continue her story.

  “It is not that I do not like work, Muirteach, I will scrub and whitewash when it is needful, but it was the pettiness of her. And perhaps she is right, and I am proud and headstrong, for hasn’t my own father said as much to me at times, but I could not be staying there. I could not. Not after what happened to Sister Morag.”

  “Sister Morag?”

  “Aye, the one you brought back to Balnahard that day we were speaking.” She picked up her beaker but set it down again when she found it was empty, and poured herself some more ale.

  “Are you sure you should be drinking so much, mo chridhe?” I cautioned.

  “Indeed, it’s a great thirst I have tonight. And I might be regretting it tomorrow. But I am so glad to be away and out of there, Muirteach. You do not know what it is like!”

  “Are you forgetting that I spent my boyhood in the priory? I am thinking I know a little about it after all those years. It was glad I was to be leaving that place, as well. But what of Sister Morag?”

  “She was sore distraught that day when you brought her back. And I would have given her some of that poppy juice and warm broth and gotten her to sleep. But the abbess was saying that the devil was in her, and she must be exorcised.”

  “Dia.”

  “She took her to the Stone of Penance and used the scourge on her, telling her to confess, and trying to drive the devil from her. It was cruel, Muirteach, just cruel. She was ill, not possessed.”

  “All the sisters did this?” I asked, incredulous.

  “No, it was just the abbess, really. But the others could not stop the beating, not even Sister Euphemia, although I think she tried. And that is when I knew I could stay there no longer. It may be true that I am disobedient as she said, but I can not abide cruelty, and this was cruel, Muirteach.”

  “And what of Sister Morag? Did she confess? Did the devil leave her?”

  “There was no devil, Muirteach, and you are knowing that as well as I do. But after the scourging, Sister Morag was weak and very quiet. They took her to the shelter of the miserable women, that one that is over on the side of the nunnery under the rocks, and she stayed there for some days. I do not know that she confessed what it was that troubled her so that day. I heard nothing about it. I am thinking the other sisters were afraid to speak of what had happened.”

  “Well, whatever, mo chridhe, I am glad you are out of it safely.”

  “Aye, it is good to be here. Your aunt and uncle have been kind. But I suppose I must go home soon, when there is a boat crossing the sound.” She made to stand up, then sat down again abruptly. “Oh, Muirteach, I’m tipsy. The hall is spinning.”

  “You’d best lie down. Where are you sleeping?”

  “That wee chamber where the children sleep. You know the one. I’m thinking that you slept there yourself as a lad.”

  Indeed I did know it well, as I knew the whole of my uncle’s dun. And so I guided a very unsteady Mariota out of the hall, ignoring some inquiring looks from my uncle and Fergus. I could feel the softness of her body as she leaned against me, and I put one arm around her to help steady her steps. We made our way to the sleeping chamber where young Dòmhnall and his younger brothers and sisters lay snoring. I found what I guessed to be her mattress, stuffed with bracken and with a plaid neatly folded at the bottom of it.

  “That’s just grand, Muirteach,” Mariota said. “It’s kind to me you are.” The weight of her body sagged against mine for a moment. “Oh, will this room not stop spinning—”

  With that, Mariota collapsed on her mattress and I sat by her for a while, just looking at the fair, sweet form of her, until the sound of soft snoring told me she had fallen asleep. But still I sat a while longer in the darkness, watching over her while she slept.

  Chapter 17

  The next morning I told Gillespic of Gormal and her son, and how they had escaped us. He had heard some of the tale from Fergus the night before.

  “Curse it, Muirteach, but you should not have been drinking any of that witch’s brew. Are you such an amadan as all that?”

  I remembered the strange vision I had had, and although I should have hung my head in shame at my uncle’s scolding, I found I did not have the heart for it. The vision had been a wondrous thing, and throughout our time of searching for the witch and her son, the light of it had not entirely left me. And so I simply smiled at my uncle and agreed with him that indeed I was an amadan to have been so taken in. At which my uncle’s bad humor evaporated like dew in the morning sun.

  “Och, well, Muirteach, I would not have turned down some ale myself, after coming all that way. And I wouldn’t be expecting that anyone would poison a guest. It goes against all laws, so it does.”

  “It was not exactly poison, Uncle,” I retorted. “No one was harmed by it.”

  “Except that the witch and her changeling son have vanished,” replied my uncle. “Perhaps they’ve gone back to the hollow hills.”

  “And in that case, Uncle, we will never be finding them and no need to be trying. But I am thinking they’ve simply gone to ground someplace on the islands and are not with the faerie.”

  My uncle snorted. “Well, perhaps we should be sending a letter to Himself at Finlaggan, and he can put some of his men to searching as well. Sure there’s not a place in the Isles they could hide without him knowing of it.”

  “I’ll go myself, Uncle. When there is a boat. And Mariota, I think, will be wanting to return to Islay as well.”

  “Now that she is not with the nuns. Aye, that will be fine, Muirteach. You can be taking her back, for I’m thinking you might be wanting to speak with her father soon. I’ve eyes in my head. You were gone from the hall a long while last night.”

  I could feel my cheeks flush at my uncle’s words. “The lass was far gone with drink! Uncle, nothing happened. And when it does, I’ll not be taking advantage of the woman when she is in her cups.”

  My uncle gave me a searching look. “Indeed, I do not think you will be,” he said thoughtfully. “Well, we can ready a boat and you can leave today if the weather holds, or tomorrow if that squall sets in.”

  “Fine enough,” I agreed, and left him to find Mariota.

  * * * * *

  I discovered her seated in the hall looking somewhat the worse for the last evening’s drink. Her face was pale, but she gave me a wry smile when she saw me.

  “And how are you feeling?” I asked.

  “Oh, Muirteach, such a head I have—I do not know why I was drinking so much. Indeed I have never had so much to drink. I hardly know myself these days.”

  “Well, you have remedies for a sore head, don’t you? I remember you giving me something when first we met.”

  “I was feeling so miserable I was not even thinking of it. But you are right. Perhaps I’ll just be looking to see what your aunt has in the storeroom.”

  I followed her into the storeroom without being asked, thinking of the last time we had sat there before Mariota had gone to the nuns, and of the kiss we had shared. But it seemed Mariota was more intent on curing her headache, for she did not look at me as she rummaged among the pots and vials and herbs stored there, searching, I gathered, for some meadowsweet and other ingredients. When she had found a bunch of what she wanted, she gave it to me to hold and continued looking for another herb to add to her remedy.

  “Well, this will have to do, I am thinking,” she said at leng
th.

  “And what do you do with it?” I asked.

  “You make a tea with it. With hot water. That will be in the kitchen,” Mariota added, as though I did not know where to go for hot water. However, I did not tease her, as I could see when we got into the kitchen that Mariota’s complexion was somewhat pale and green, and I did not think she’d take kindly to a joke.

  “Here, let me be doing that,” I said, setting some water to boil over the hearth in a kettle and taking a beaker from a shelf. “Now how much of the herb do I put in?” I asked when the water grew hot.

  Mariota instructed me and then took the beaker herself and muttered a charm over it while it was steeping. When she judged it ready, she took a sip and made a face.

  “It’s bitter.”

  “As I should well remember. But I also remember that it did me good.”

  “Were you wanting some of it now?”

  I shook my head. “I am feeling fine this morning. I think you have more need of it today, mo chridhe.”

  Mariota drained the cup, and I told her about the plans I’d made with Gillespic to go to Islay. “Were you wanting to come?”

  Mariota agreed. “It will be good to be home again. Were you seeing my father when you last went to Islay?”

  “Yes.”

  “And were you telling him I had gone up to Balnahard? Och, I have just failed with the nuns as well. There is no reason to keep it from him.”

  I looked her full in the face, and spoke as clearly as I dared. “Mariota, it gives me joy that you were leaving that place. Even your father was thinking that you might not stay there. As for failing as a healer, you are too hard on yourself. That old woman spoke out of bitterness—you must not take her words to heart. You have a great deal of healing skill, Mariota.” I laughed a little. “Isn’t your own remedy helping you? That should prove it to you.”

  “It is true that I do feel better. A little. Well, we shall see about all of that. But whatever, it will be good to see home again.”

  * * * * *

  And so we made ready to sail to Islay. The weather held, and we set off mid-morning, once more in my uncle’s nabhaig, with a brisk wind blowing us across the sound. Fergus came along to help crew. As I watched the bulk of Jura and Islay loom closer, I considered the tangled threads that made this coil of confusion: Niall’s murder; the faerie gold. The witch and her son, not stolen by the faerie but vanished to hide in the caves of Jura. The infant bones found in the cave near the Tràigh Bàn. The strange behavior of Sister Morag. The suspicious behavior of the Uist men and Liam MacLean, whose comings and goings still had me perplexed. The faerie lights and strangers seen dancing near the Tràigh Bàn.