by L. L. Muir
Whatever had bitten him scurried just beyond the rim above. The sound gave him solace, however. At least it hadn’t been a snake.
He breathed deeply to calm himself before taking inventory. If someone had discovered his sporran, his bellowing would have allowed them ample warning to get away from the place.
In no hurry, then, he glanced down to see just how dangerous a position he might be in. To his great relief, the ground edged away as his memory had insisted. If it hadn’t been for the shelf that jutted out over his head, it would have been an easy descent.
Holding tight to plants and heather that grew along the underside of the crag like a beard, Hamish made his way back to the east side. He didn’t bother concealing his progress and was surprised to find that the ferns he’d arranged over the hidey hole were still in place.
Enjoying a moment of feeling clever, he removed his sporran from the crevice and opened it carefully, holding it sideways to keep from damaging the contents. It was dark inside the pouch, so he slid his fingers in gently to feel for an edge to lift.
There was no edge to lift.
He righted the bag to allow sunlight to illuminate its depths. The same old relics stared back, the relics he’d carried with him for centuries. Nothing new. Nothing sweet. Nothing smelling of berries and crust cooked to perfection over a warm fire.
He glared at the fronds that lay at his feet, blaming them for allowing him a moment of hope, thinking he’d been so crafty. It was at that moment he hoped there were a dozen ruffians upon that mountain—for two reasons.
First, it might take a dozen good fights to rid him of his disappointment. And second, it would mean that none of them would get much more of that pie than he had.
CHAPTER THREE
Screwing with her body clock again, which she’d been so careful not to do, Sam overslept that fine Saturday morning. She didn’t remember turning off her alarm, but then again, she couldn’t remember setting it, either. Her head had felt like a heavy, lop-sided watermelon by the time she’d returned to her new home in the middle of the night, and she’d been grateful to have something demanding her attention. Otherwise, she might have worried about the rental cottage farther up the hill—and who might or might not have been lurking inside it.
“Oh, but not a witch,” she said aloud. “Just ghosties.” She chuckled at the silly term, then gasped and grabbed both sides of the watermelon to keep it from splitting open.
What had she been thinking to stay so long at Atholl’s and drink so much?
After a minute of silent breathing, everything settled again and she lowered her arms. Moving slow and cautiously, it only took her ten minutes to get some pain pills down her throat, and she was perfectly content to sit quietly on the edge of her bed for the next two hours waiting for them to start working.
It was well after noon when she finally dared move. The dizziness had subsided, and after a few glasses of water, she was feeling almost human again. A warm shower did the rest, and by the time she was dressed, she felt like she should make the rest of the day count for something.
There was no way she would go back to Atholl’s and risk spending another night like the last one, and she was in no mood to be social anyway. But there was somewhere she was dying to go…
“It’s the mountain that’s haunted,” she told herself, “not the Auld Witch House.”
She packed a little food in a sack, filled her water bottle, and pushed the door open. Her violin case, propped against the wall under the light switch, caught her eye. It was like a puppy that was used to going along. But that morning, it looked like something completely different.
It looked like a weapon that might save her from the dangerous spirits of three little children who might just mistake her for a Redcoat.
Puppy or weapon, the decision was made. She was taking it along. And with the case in one hand and her daypack slung over her shoulder, she marched a hundred yards up the path to the older cottage.
It was a test, she admitted it.
If she could handle being alone in the little house, after all the wild stories Bertie and Rob had shared, she was tough enough to go exploring further up the mountain. She was curious to see Odin’s Helmet, since it was supposedly in her own backyard, and if she could make it back home again without crossing paths with any ghosties, she was going to be all right.
The door opened easily without so much as a creak. The walls were solid, and the mismatched patches of white on the outside and inside only proved that it was maintained regularly. In the website photos for the rental company, it only gave the house more interest, more personality.
No cobwebs, no spiders, no witchy broom standing in the corner. There was a double bed to the left, a small table and stools to the right, and most importantly, all of them were unoccupied. A small door to the far right led to a bathroom that was equally as vacant.
Sam went to the ancient cabinet against the front wall and rearranged the new knick-knacks she’d picked up at the antique store. She moved the salt and pepper shakers that were two cats, then moved them back the way they were.
“It’s no fun if you can’t see each other, right?”
There wasn’t much more to the little cottage other than a hot plate, a fireplace, and some simple plumbing, but according to its rental history, it was very popular with hikers. It was cheap and clean and had just enough Old World charm to live up to most imaginations. And she suspected that the name of the place intrigued some vacationers who would be more interested in sighting ghosts than bagging Munros.
Marketing to ghost hunters would be a fine line to walk, however. Some might be intrigued by the possibility of hearing Willa Farquharson play her fiddle, but the story of three murdering children would turn most people away. So, she would just stick to what was working, leave the listing with the rental company who took only a small percentage of the rental fees, and earn her keep by doing the housekeeping herself.
Since there was plenty of money left in the coffers for upkeep, she thought a little landscaping around the front door might cheer the place up. And by doing the work herself, it would keep her busy until the bookings began again in three weeks.
She locked up the cottage and struck out for the mountain top and Odin’s Helmet, hoping for a little inspiration for the new garden. Rob promised it was easy to find if she climbed straight up from the houses. She just hoped that rocks and inspiration was all she’d find.
CHAPTER FOUR
Even with damp ground to reveal the slightest press of a foot, Hamish found no trace of whomever had stolen his food. So much for his hope of a dozen thieves, then, for surely one of twelve men would forget to hide his tracks.
It would be a great disappointment if there were only three or four to give a lesson in manners.
Since the woman believed the villains made their camp at the top of the hill, he wasted no time worrying. He would find them before the end of the day, for he had only a thousand feet more between himself and the peak. And if a constant source of food was the old woman’s cottage, he doubted the scoundrels would stray far from it.
A fox would keep a close eye on his henhouse, would he not?
After hiking another half hour, Hamish’s body reminded him that he was indeed mortal, and as such, it thirsted. So, after a quick glance around to be certain he was alone, he closed his eyes and listened. In truth, it was a habit of his to spend much of his alert time on the battlefield with his eyes closed and his ghostly ears poised. His memory was slow to point out that what he usually listened for was…music.
And what was more, he remembered why…
He pushed the memory away and concentrated. After he isolated the song of birds, the chirping of bugs, and the soft slough of a breeze, he caught what he’d been searching for—the high, musical voice of water. He turned his head to the right and listened again.
Aye. Definitely to the right.
A short jaunt delivered him to the side of a small burn that cut through a ri
ft in the earth. Bubbling and chatty, the water welcomed him and dared him to drink his fill. He would remember to find a canteen of sorts just in case he had to pass his two days on the mountain. After so many years of worrying for little at all, it was strange to have a body to care for again.
Water, yes. And food.
Too bad the mountain wasn’t dotted with wee cottages for the tourists on holiday. He might have a chance at a real meal, then, what with Americans thinking any bloke in a kilt was much more charming and handsome than they actually were.
Perhaps, in the gloaming, he might spy the smoke from a chimney or two. Or better yet…
If he finished this task, perhaps he could find his way across the loch and visit his old homestead once more! Even if the croft and land had changed, there would have to be something memorable there. Perhaps the turn of a road. A mounting stone. The vague lines in the ground that might show how the water had flowed once upon a time.
He paused to look across the glen again, to note the route he would take away from the water…if he had the chance to go.
More determined than ever to see his duty done, he struck out once more for the top. There was no need to meander up easier trails when his body was able and willing to climb straight up the bastards’ noses.
Damn them anyway. What type of rogues would steal food from an old woman who was obviously in poor shape for travel? It was likely their harassing alone that had turned her acrimonious in the first place. And as soon as the villains were sent on their way, the sooner she could relax enough to entertain a weary traveler or two, for hers appeared to be a singularly isolated life.
It would make little difference, he told himself. Whether he did his noble deed for a pleasant woman or a not, it would count just the same, would it not? Whether ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren…
Aye, words to live by. Words by which to redeem oneself—after a long heart to heart with Bonnie Prince Charlie, of course. For Soni had promised them all a moment or two of sweet revenge before she forced them on to the next life. And it was a shared disappointment in Scotland’s true prince that had kept them tethered to the moor all those years, tethered and unwilling to give up their disgust with the man who had failed their beloved country.
‘Tis true. Anger with Charles Stuart might have been the reason Hamish had found himself rising from his grave with the rest—in truth, he was the 60th to rise out of the 79 souls that found themselves together that long ago morning. However, he might have moved on to God’s judgment sooner had his heart not been so heavy with a private grievance…
According to Soncerae, they were each obligated to perform a deed that proved them to be honorable men. One by one, each of the 79 would be brought to life and sent away, given two days’ time to see their deed accomplished. Only then would they be given an audience with Bonnie Prince Charlie, to spill his vitriol as they wished.
Hamish was no different from the rest by admitting such a moment of vindication was all the temptation he needed to agree to Soni’s plan. But if he also had the chance to stand on home ground once more, he might be able to ease the pain he’d carried with him for three centuries.
Villains, then home.
Villains, then home.
After charging like a bull up the hill, his instincts finally got hold of him and urged him to the side of the path before he might walk into an ambush. But nothing stirred on the trail, and after he’d stood silent for a few minutes, the woodland creatures ignored him once again.
He was prepared to move on again when he noticed something peculiar on a patch of mud. Or rather, he noticed nothing at all. The patch of wet ground had not a flaw on its surface. No rock, no leaf, not a stick or blemish marred its smooth face, as if it were simply a calm puddle of muddy water.
But mud settled at the bottom of a puddle. This was something much more substantial. Something lasting. And if it were a patch of normal mud, there would be little about its surface that was perfect.
It resembled one of those fancy cakes with smooth, glassy frosting. And even if his stomach had led his mind in the direction of food again, he could not get over the oddity enough to continue.
Someone had smoothed the surface—as a child might, in play—or a man trying to hide a footprint he hadn’t meant to leave behind…
Hamish tried to imagine the path one would walk in order to leave a print in the mud. If a man had come up the same path, he wouldn’t have stepped in that patch unless he’d been heading for…the brush growing against the rise to his left.
The creatures fell silent again. Someone watched him now, he was certain, so he glanced around as if everything nearby proved as interesting as the mud. Then he employed all the acting skills he could muster, wrinkled his nose in distaste, then backed up as if retreating down the mountain again. After about thirty feet, he stepped silently around a thicket and sidled up to the rowan trees. There was nothing above but the rock-covered cairn he’d been anxious to see, and since none could climb across Odin’s Helmet undetected, he feared no attack from above.
The forest relaxed once more, and he thought it best to hold his ground for a bit. He plucked a small twig covered in red rowanberries to sooth his belly. He could not risk it growling at him when the water had all gone, so he forced the bitter things down.
The thought of blaeberries, even uncooked, made the red ones more distasteful than he remembered.
A movement near the main path caught his attention and he craned his neck for a better look at the small animal that appeared there. At most, it was the size of a large dog and had the shape and fur of a rabbit—or perhaps it was simply the way it sat looking at the path leading down the mountain, ready to flee if the breeze blew wrong.
The pelt was in terrible condition, and Hamish moved his head about, trying to find a clear perspective of the thing while the way was blocked by the very trees that sheltered him. Mercy, but he could not imagine what sort of beast it might be, and while he maneuvered closer he searched his memories.
Mountain cats had long since gone from Scotland’s shores, along with wolves and the bears of ancient times. Or so he’d heard. There seemed to have been wolves a’ plenty after Culloden, but perhaps civilization had chased them all to ground.
This… This thing did not move like a dog for all its resemblance in size.
Had hares grown so much larger than the ones still living on the moors of Culloden? Mountain hares, perhaps? Surely, he would have seen one on the telly if they’d truly grown to such proportions.
Of course, there had been that ferocious rabbit in the Monty Python movie, but it hadn’t seemed so large as this one… Perhaps, after lying dormant for so long, his memory simply failed him.
A twig snapped beneath his boot. He looked down without thinking, and when he looked up again, the wee beastie was gone. With his presence given away yet again, there was no harm in dashing after it, so he hurried to the path and gave chase. When he reached the place upon which it had been sitting, the thing had disappeared. The path was clear all the way to the far crest. The trees ahead and to the left were older pines that had long since lost their lower branches. There was simply nowhere to hide.
Was this strange beast so fast then? Or merely clever?
Understanding finally dawned and he smiled secretly for a moment before he adopted a peevish air. “Soncerae,” he shouted to the heavens. “Do ye mean to plague me every step of the way? Or will ye leave me to my quest, mnn?”
A breeze stirred in the tops of the pines and made their trunks sway and creak. Leaves of the rowans rustled and snapped against each other. The entire mountaintop could have been alive with movement and there would be no telling if it were nature, beast, or witch.
A heavy thud came from the thicket at the base of the rise. When he turned toward it, he heard a gasp from the pines at his back. He froze with indecision, quickly chose to go with his first instinct, and headed for the more substantial noise. He hadn’t taken three steps
when a snapping branch came from the pines, then snapped again when he failed to turn. It was a distraction. Whoever watched from high in the trees was determined to turn his attention from the other.
Would he find a wounded man, then?
Wounded men were dangerous—and those who would protect them.
He pulled his dagger from his hip and without missing a step, he pulled the skean dhu from his sock and silently blessed Soni for letting him keep the weapons. Many a ghost had been taken from the moor while his ghostly weapons dissolved into nothing on the ground where he’d stood. Perhaps their quests had not posed the danger his own did.
A heavy thud at his back told him the tree-dweller was on the ground. He would have to defend himself soon.
The image of large monkeys popped into his mind and though he could not imagine monkeys surviving in the Highlands of Scotland, it would explain the size, the strange pelt he’d seen, and their ability to disappear.
But would a monkey steal a pie and leave his sporran behind? Would an animal think to replace the ferns?
He reached the spot in the underbrush where the thud had to have originated. There were simply no other options unless the sound had come from Odin’s rocks themselves.
“Go away,” the wind whispered behind him—just before it struck him soundly on the head. Despite the danger, he had to close his eyes tight against the intolerable pain. “Go away,” the wind whispered again.
And blackness consumed him.
CHAPTER FIVE
Hamish woke on the cool, hard ground. The trees rustled so violently in the wind he was surprised he hadn’t wakened sooner. Storm clouds hovered overhead, then slowly unleashed their rain as if they’d waited for his full attention before starting.
