Roommates

by Valerie Reyes

  “We’ll be needin’ te tie a lengt’ o’ cord aboottha’ basket, lassie,” the old woman said, nearly out of breath from the activity. “Wit’ his narrow body, he can scurry through a keyhole, I don’ doot.”

  Cairistine held the basket lid closed while Inghean found some cord to wrap tightly about the lid. The basket bucked and jumped in her grasp, a certain testament to the fact that the creature inside was in good health. Inghean wrapped three cords over the basket and tied them tightly before stepping away.

  “A’righ’ then, lassie, let’s see if that’ll hold him,” she said, watching the basket closely as Cairistine loosened her grip on it.

  Though the basket tumbled several times, the lid held shut and the marten was unable to find a crack to slither through.

  “It seems te be holdin’ him,” Cairistine commented.

  “Ye bes’ be on yer way, then, lassie,” the old woman commented. “Who knows how much longer twill hold with him raisin’ the devil in there?”

  Cairistine scooped up the wildly dancing basket. It wasn’t easy to hold onto, but she managed to wrap her arms around it and hold it fast. “Ye healed him fer certain,” she laughed.

  “Ye don’ be wastin’ time gettin’ him te where he belongs,” Inghean warned. “An’ tis bes’ ye no are wanderin’ the wood t’day, lassie. There’s Campbellsaboot an’ they’re a huntin’ somethin’. Won’ be doin’ ye no goo’ te come across a Campbell when yer alone in the wood.”

  “A Campbell don’ stan’ a chance again the likes o’ me.” Cairistine raised her chin slightly.

  “Jest the same, lassie, be on yer guard an’ keep yer eyes open. They believe themselves te own all o’ the highlands and they won’ have secon’ thought aboot takin’ advantage o’ a girl alone in the wood.”

  “I’ll be careful.” Cairistine knew that there wasn’t any point in discussing it further. She started out of the stable using the stable door rather than going back through the house and started on her way back to where she had found the marten.

  Chapter 2

  The mist had thickened since she’d gone into the shack, and along with it the cold. It seemed to crawl through her garments and nip at her even through her flesh and into her bones. She was beginning to wish that she had put off returning the marten to his home and enjoyed the warmth of the fire instead. However, there was little that she could do, but hurry on her way. If she did, perhaps she could return to the fire more quickly. With that as her goal, she moved quickly through the trees.

  She knew that Inghean’s warning against bumping into a group of Campbells out hunting was something to be taken seriously. They tended to load up on plenty of whiskey before setting out and didn’t keep the bottle corked long before taking another nip. Though they were of questionable report when sober, they would certainly be worse while drunk.

  The Campbells, for several generations, had claimed lordship over Scotland. Their claim was a flimsy one, but their numbers and the fact that they had little compunction against asserting their claim through violence made their argument difficult to refute. England, to be sure, had the more powerful claim over the land, however, enforcing their claim had always proven to be extremely difficult given the terrain and the overall attitude of the free-thinking highlanders. The only real rival to the Campbells, in the highlands, came in the form of the sons of Clan Gregor, who descended from King Alpin himself, and by true right, were the rulers of the highlands, but they had their own problem. The entire clan of Gregor had been outlawed by the English crown and therefore lent legitimacy to something that the Campbells would have gladly done without the edict; kill MacGregors.

  Hunching herself against the cold as she moved through the woods, thoughts of the Campbells were in her head, though she had little to worry about. The mist was so thick that a person might move three strides in any direction and not be able to see the place that they had just left. Fortunately, for Cairistine, she knew the direction that she must take and the landmarks along the way. Within minutes of leaving the old woman’s shack, she forgot about Campbells in the woods and focused all of her attention upon navigating her way back to the marten’s home.

  Though it took longer than normal to find the small glade with the crumbling stone where the young marten had been lying when she’d stumbled across it, she found her way there and dug through the folds of her clothing until she found the small dagger that she kept hidden away there. With the dagger in hand, she slipped the blade under each of the cords and cut them free of the basket before cautiously grasping the latch that would open the lid.

  It wasn’t the first time that Cairistine had nursed a wild animal back to health and then released it. In fact, doing so had become something of a vocation for her and she considered herself the personal physician to all of the animals of the wood. Having plenty of experience, therefore, she turned the basket so that the lid would open toward her and the marten would escape away from her rather than toward her. She still had scars from the first and only lesson that she’d learned about releasing a wild animal back into the woods.

  “Back teyer family then,” she said, opening the lid. There was little more than a grey flash of fur as the marten leapt from the basket and scurried into his home in the crumbling stone. There wasn’t even a “fair thee well” offered by the little fellow, but Cairistine didn’t belabor the fact. She needed no thanks for what she did. The fact that the animals of the wood continued to thrive was satisfaction enough.

  With the marten back in his home, the chill crept up on her once more. Though she was used to it, it still had to be dealt with and she was inclined to make her way to the cave where she kept a stash of dry firewood and a tattered old blanket. It wasn’t far, in fact, she had been visiting the cave and making sure it was well stocked when she’d stumbled across the marten. She started to rise when she heard a soft footstep behind her and a hand touch her shoulder.

  With the dagger still in her hand, she spun away from the hand and held the small weapon ready to strike as she turned to face her attacker. As she turned, she forgot about the basket, her feet got tangled in it and she feel to the hard ground, dropping the dagger as she did so. Scrambling to her feet and looking about her for another weapon, she looked, wide-eyed toward her attacker, but he was not in pursuit of her. Instead, he stood several paces away, clutching his side and swaying on his feet. Before she could react further, he crumbled to the ground.

  Cairistine’s start kept a hold on her for only a moment, before she realized that her attacker had meant her no harm, but had, instead, been reaching out to her for help. As soon as she saw him collapse, she sprung into action.

  “Who er ye?” she said; instinct quickly replacing fear and moving her to his side. “Where er ye hurt?”

  There was no response from the fallen man, though the answer to one of her questions rapidly became obvious. There as an ugly gash through his coat and shirt and plenty of wet, sticky blood layered over some that was older and dry. Who could guess how long he had wandered the woods searching for someone to help him? She looked at his pale face to see if there was any response, but saw none. She reached a quivering hand toward the place on his neck where Inghean had taught her to feel for a heartbeat, hoping that it wasn’t already too late for him.

  Finding a slow beating in the vein on his neck and feeling breath from his nostrils, she knew that he was still alive, though wouldn’t be for long if she didn’t do something for him. By the look of the blood on his coat, she was pretty sure that he had lost a great deal of blood and would grow very weak rapidly if she didn’t find a way to stop the flow. The cold certainly helped, but he would need a great deal more if he was to survive.

  Cairistine wasn’t sure where the strength came from. It was, no doubt, something that was born within in her in the face of danger or in order to save a life. Though the man was heavy and the stony ground offered an enormous challenge, she began dragging his limp body in the direction of the cave. It was no easy task and sh
e had to stop and rest more than a dozen times whenever her breathing became ragged and she simply couldn’t struggle any further. However, due to sheer determination, she was finally able to haul his long, firm body out of the mist and into the cave.

  Glad that she had taken the time to stock her cave on previous occasions, Cairistine set to work building a fire. The fire was more for light than it was for heat, though she knew that the sweat that she’d built up while struggling to get him into the cave would quickly give way to numbing cold. With warmth and light to work by, she began to examine her patient.

  Pulling his coat and shirt aside so that she could get a better look at the wound, she soon discovered an angry gash that was a handbreadth in length and exposing the bones of several ribs. As she continued to peel away the layers of clothing in order to see if there were any other wounds, she realized that though he was lean, there was a great deal of power in his muscular form. His chest, shoulders and arms were packed with firm flesh, much like that of a well conditioned horse. She couldn’t help admiring his form even as she searched for wounds.

  Though there were some other scratches, bruises and numerous older scars, the gash on his ribs seemed to be the greatest concern of the moment and she grabbed the small bucket and scrambled out of the cave to the spring not far away.

  Cairistine had discovered both the cave and the spring some months before and had decided to set up a place where she could find shelter, warmth and even, perhaps, hide from danger. With fresh water in the bucket and a piece of rag torn from the man’s tattered shirt, she began to bathe the wound and then do the best she could to pack clean cloth from her own clothing in and around the wound to stem the bleeding.

  Her attention brought about the first fluttering signs of his eyelids, which opened to reveal a pair of crystal blue eyes that made her catch her gasp.

  Cairistine’s patient started to rise, but she placed a soft hand on his chest. “Yer no goin’ anywhere wit’ tha’ gash in yer side,” she whispered.

  “Can’ stay,” he gasped.

  “Yer safe if ye stay put,” she replied.

  “They’ll fin’ me an’ finish the job.”

  “They’ll no be findin’ ye here an’ no’ in this mist.”

  “Ye don’ know them. They’re ruthless.”

  “Tha’ would be Campbellsyertalkin’ aboot, then?”

  “Ay, the ver’ same vermin,” he spat.

  “Then I can assume ye no er a Campbell.”

  “No hardly.” A weak smile cracked his lips, but it didn’t last long.

  “MacGregor?”

  “Taint safe te be sayin’.”

  She needed no other answer and she decided not to press further. “I’m no lover o’ the Campbellsm’self if that is yer worry. My name is Cairistine. I brough’ ye her’ an’ di’ the best I could fer ye, but ye need more than I can give an’ ye no ergoin’ nowhere fer a spell or ye’ll open that gash. In trut’, tis in need of a needle and thread.”

  “I thank ye, but I can manage,” he replied. He tried to sit up, but the sharp pain made him fall back. “Ye’ve made it worse.”

  “No, I’ve made it better. Ye were out o’ yer head an actin’ on instinc’ before; jest like an animal fightin’ fer survival. Now, ye jest lay still an’ stop fightin’ me.”

  “What more can ye do, but let me die?” he asked.

  “Ye won’ be dyin’ if ye’ll sit still,” she replied rising to her feet. “The mist is set in thick aboot an’ this cave no is easy te fin’. Don’ ye move. I’m goin’ to lay me hands on needle and thread an’ see if I can fin’ a salve an’ a bit o broth te get ye through this.”

  “Bu’ ye no can be wanderin’ aboot an’ then comin’ back here,” he protested tryin’ to rise again. He pushed himself further that time, but the pain from the movement overtook him and he faded quickly away.

  Weak from his loss of blood and the struggle to push himself up, he fainted, providing the perfect opportunity for her to slip out of the cave. He wasn’t going anywhere and his arguments were moot against his weakness and pain. She hurried back to the shack of Inghean for the needed items.

  Chapter 3

  The crystal blue eyes, though still showing signs of weakness, greeted her when she returned from her errand with the same basket that had held the marten earlier full of all that she needed to tend to her patient. He’s pulled himself upright, but leaned heavily against the stone wall of the cave.

  “Ye no er one ferstayin’ put, er ye?” She attempted to scold him, but realized that she admired the fact that he simply wouldn’t quit fighting.

  “Fer me,” he sighed. “Stayin’ put means meetin’ me maker.”

  “An’ trapsin’ aboot will only bring it on sooner,” she retorted, taking out the needle and thread. “Wha’ chance would ye have again a Campbell in the shape yer in?”

  “Taint a Campbell tha’ can match the likes o’ me.” He tried to push out his chest with pride, but didn’t have the strength to pull it off.

  “Ye can’ even boas’ without hurtin’ yerself,” she mocked, pushing the end of the thread through the eye of the needle. “Sit back so I can tend te ye. This needle will tes’ the likes of the man ye er. I’m afraid I’ve nothin’ te dull the pain.”

  “Ye haven’t a bit o’ whiskey, have ye?”

  “I suppose tha’ I could go searchin’ abootfer a Campbell to provide ye with a draught,” she chuckled softly.

  “Ay,” he replied. Though she could tell that the pain was close to unbearable, he worked his way back down the wall until he was lying flat on the stone floor.

  “Er ye ready, then?” she said, grimacing as she held the threaded needle close to the uncovered wound.

  “Raghnall,” he whispered as he steeled himself against the coming pain.

  “Raghnall? Is tha’ yer name?”

  “Tis.”

  “Well then, Raghnall,” she said. “Hold still while I try to push this needle through yer thick hide.”

  Though it was her first time sewing human flesh, Cairistine tentatively pressed the needle through Raghnall’s flesh grimacing along with him as he gasped. Though she’d done her best to put on that tough outer shell that came with having survived as a daughter of the highlands for so many years, she felt every single prick of the needle as it broke through his flesh. She’d wished that she’d been able to take him to Inghean and let her do the job, but moving him had been out of the question and she’d been forced to accept the fact that she was going to have to take on his care without the assistance of the old woman.

  “Tis time tha’ ye learn feryerself anyway,” had been the only encouragement that she’d received from Inghean as she packed the basket and recited a list of instructions for the medicines that she’d placed inside. “Tis no differen’ than sewin’ on a patch, but ye don’ need te make it stick fore’er. Jest ge’ the skin pulled t’gether an’ held in place. Don’ go getting’ weak when ye star’, tha’ man needs yer help.”

  Inghean’s words stuck in her head long after she completed the task and Raghnall was resting comfortably beside the fire. Though she too was exhausted, no sleep would come to her as she watched the relaxed form of the rugged man to whom she was tending.

  With his crystal blue eyes closed, she was able to examine him further. He had hair that fell well past his shoulders and was the same tone as that of a chestnut horse. Those locks framed a sculpted face with a brow that stood out prominently from his skull and was matched by cheek bones and a jaw-line that were vying for equal attention. Though he kept himself shaven, it had been several days since a razor had touched the stubble on his cheeks and chin. It made him look untamed and daring.

  If he was, indeed, one of the outlawed sons of Clan Gregor, then, no doubt, he had spent his entire life looking over his shoulder, running from one place to another, hiding from those who wished to collect a bounty on him and fighting whenever he was cornered. He wasn’t a great deal unlike the vanishing wolves of the highlands.
They too had a bounty on their heads; hated because their nature drove them to take easy prey from the flocks and herds.

  She knew only a portion of the story behind the MacGregor Clan. She knew that they had once been tenants of the Campbells whose sheer numbers had overtaken the entire Glenorchy. Because they would not go quietly into the mist and allow England or any other man to rule them, their name had been dispossessed by parliament and they were unable to own land. However, when they rose up and rebelled against their oppressors, they had been outlawed. Though many referred to them as the Children of the Mist, in recent years, the even older appellation had been reattached to them, likely because of how they were being hunted; Sons of the Wolf.

  “Ye certainly er a son of the wolf,” she whispered as she gazed upon him.

  The sound of her voice caused his eyelids to flutter again. She regretted having spoken, not wanting to awaken him, but the moment that she saw his crystal blue eyes, she felt a tingle surge through her.

  His eyes showed signs that he was already feeling better and they silently scanned her face. She suddenly realized that she could no longer stand the intensity of his silent gaze upon her and the myriad of sensations that were overwhelming her, so she turned away from him.

  “We’ve got te get some broth into ye,” she said, dropping pieced of dried meat and other herbs and vegetables that were in the mix that Inghean had sent with her into the small pot and placed it by the fire. “Yer stitched up, but yerfer from bein’ ready to run from a mess o’ well armed Campbells.”

  When he didn’t respond to her, she turned to look back at him. He hadn’t stopped watching her with that steady gaze. A smile broke across his lips when she looked back at him.

  “What?”

  “I no can watch me nurse as she works?”

  “Wha’ is there te watch?”