by F. E. Arliss
When Gwen Sinclair was finally able to speak again, she had already been deposited into the stocks in front of the smithy on Eigg. She wasn’t actually sure she was in her right mind. Her memory wavered from vague watery pictures of waves splashing beneath her feet until she had been deposited onto the back of what had appeared to be a very large whale. Maybe a blue whale, her school girl self remembered. Seals had frolicked in the seas alongside them as they’d cut through frigid waters like a hot knife through butter.
The young woman had neither looked at her nor spoken to her. Nor had the two young warriors spoken. They’d simply dragged her from the sea creatures back and onto the jetty, marched her through a knot of villagers and deposited her into the stocks. The ancient wood had been thoroughly locked around her wrists and neck by a large grizzled blacksmith who also looked like he’d rather cut her head off than talk to her.
Millicent had come down from the Abbey and greeted her regretfully. “Really, Gwen, you should have just come. I don’t think you realize what you’ve done and it’s too late for you now,” the crone of the Thorneridge coven shook her head sadly. “You always were arrogant and thoughtless. Now, though, it will be your undoing. I’m almost sorry for you. But given the brazen lack of care you’ve had for the life of our young queenie, I can’t really even muster up forgiveness.”
“I’ll have someone send you down water and some food,” Millicent Thorneridge cast one last look at her old acquaintance and vanished into the dark. Nothing but the wind howled on the Isle of Eigg. A young man appeared out of the darkness, gave her a few swallows of water from an old porcelain cup and another few swallows of soup. Then, he too, vanished into the night.
Rain lashed the isle. Winds howled. Lightning arced in the night sky. Gwen Sinclair had never been so terrified in her entire life. She’d never really seen any powerful magic in her life. Magic, yes. But nothing like this. This was old, powerful, primeval even. No, she realized now, she had not known what she was doing when she’d pawned the care of the stone off on an unknown young trainee who was rumored to be a shield skin. It had seemed an easy way out of a huge responsibility. Now she realized, she’d pay for that lack of responsibility.
Chapter Fifteen
The Sentence
The following morning found the village quiet and the seas and skies clearing. It was obvious that queenie had made a decision. While everyone was curious about the outcome of that decision, no one approached the clearly exhausted figure of the drooping Gwen Sinclaire.
When the last of the morning mists drifted out to sea, a grimly calm Emery sipped the last of the tea in her cup, raised her gaze from the merrily crackling fire in the sitting room, and after a nod to the crones, strode from the room. Her footsteps could be heard echoing down the corridor to the Abbey’s entrance.
Quickly the crones gathered their cloaks and practically ran after the rapidly receding figure of their young charge as she disappeared towards the village.
As though a gong had been rung, villagers began assembling around the smithie. The large bearded man inside simply ignored everyone and continued shaping a small piece of iron in the flaming forge. Kern sat solemnly in the corner. Don Juan, for once not with his spirit muse Emery, crouched in uncharacteristic gloom on Kern’s shoulder, one small paw curled around a long stray strand of Kern’s wild, red curly hair.
The twins already leaned against the wall of their hut. Eilidh seated in front of them on the petrified stump she used to braid hair. Someone had brought a rusty folding chair out and placed it near the wall of a shed next to the smithie. The ancient humped figure of the selkie woman approached and sank with crippled clumsiness onto its welcome wobbliness.
All was quiet. The blacksmith plunged the piece of hot iron he was working on into a bucket of water - the shrieking hiss as it hit the cold water was the only sound.
Donkey’s clattered to a halt, the crones dismounting in a hurry and taking up positions beside the seated selkie woman. The shaggy donkeys wandered off to munch at the occasional tough root and nibble at flowers through the weathered slats of the village gardens tended neatly behind worn stone huts. Everyone waited - including Gwen Sinclaire who raised reddened eyes to survey the crowd. They were going to kill her. She deserved it.
Emery appeared at the edge of the village center. Nodding to the crones and then sending a glance to Mur and Ray, she stopped in front of the sagging Gwen. The twins stepped forward and releasing the stocks, pulled the terrified woman to the front of the wooden device and propped her up facing Emery. They then stepped behind the stocks continuing to grip the terrified woman's wrists as she faced the determined angry young woman in front of her.
“Having had the night to think about your actions, can you tell me why my life is similar to the night you’ve spent in the stocks?” Emery asked the wide-eyed woman.
“I can,” the woman said, struggling to form words with her parched mouth and terrified tongue. “I have put a burden around your neck that will weigh you down and hold you in a certain position for the rest of your life. It was not of your choosing, just as my night in the stocks was not of my choosing. But instead of one night, it will be with you for the rest of your life. I was irresponsible and put the stone upon you simply to be rid of the responsibility myself.” The woman’s words trailed off into a vague question.
“That is correct. I can see that you are more clever than your actions have indicated. Though I realize that being clever is not the same as being upright,” Emery stated grimly. “You may be clever, but you were immoral in your actions.”
“Yes, I was. I apologize. Though I don’t suppose that will be enough?” the woman asked this question with a faintly longing tone.
Emery snorted. “If you’d been cursed with this stone, would an apology and a night in the stocks be enough to make up for your lifetime burden of protecting the stone and trying to evade those who want to try to lop your head off in order to obtain it? Would it be enough to make up for endangering all the people you love and your coven?”
“No,” the woman sighed the word out on a long breath of sadness. “I really was not thinking about the significance of my actions at all. I just wanted rid of it and the danger it placed my coven in.”
“So, instead, you placed me and my coven in perpetual and eternal danger,” Emery ground this out in a gritty statement that brooked no denial.
“I did,” the older woman said on a broken sob. “So help me, I did.”
Having confirmed that Gwen Sinclaire knew full well what she had done, Emery hesitated no further. “I find you, Gwen Sinclaire, guilty of the crime of assault. This crime may in the future escalate to the crime of involuntary manslaughter in the event of my death. In the event my death is caused by an attempt by others to remove the Osiris stone from my person, this upgraded charge will be filed with the legal representative of this island,” Emery’s voice rang out hard and firm in the delivery of this sentence. Millicent stepped forward and bowed in acknowledgement, then receded again into the shadows of the shed.
“Due to the small confines of the isle and the total dependency we have on each other to protect and honor our safety, the coven Thorneridge’s punishment for assault has not been updated in over a century. The penalty for assault on the legal records of the coven is,” Emery pulled a crumpled piece of stationery from the pocket of her kilt and then read in a clear voice, “any person causing acute harm to another by intentionally placing them in harm’s way or harming them with intent shall be branded as such using an iron depicting the act.”
Gwen gasped and wailed out a shriek of terror as the intent of the activity earlier in the smithy became clear to her. The villagers remained silent.
Ray leaned forward and with his free hand gripped the tips of Gwen’s fingers against the cross-piece of the weathered stocks. Before anyone could react, the burly blacksmith had slapped a brand onto the back of Gwen Sinclaire’s hand. The skin sizzled for a split second and the iron was gone. The wom
an fainted, slipping to the ground in a heap at the base of the stocks. The stink of singed skin wafted through the damp air.
Eilidh, having been prepared for the sentence, walked forward and plunged the woman’s limp hand into a red plastic pail filled with icy-cold sea water. After leaving it for a few minutes, she pulled the hand from the bucket, patted it dry, thickly applied a black tar-like substance and neatly bandaged the badly burned hand.
As she’d pulled the hand from the bucket, the blacksmith’s work could clearly be seen. The image was of a fist holding a knife in a downward stroke as it plunged into an outline of a spine. The depiction was a simple, clear outline of stabbing someone in the back. It spoke volumes, ‘back stabber’.
When the woman still lay comatose after his mother had completed her work, Ray leaned down and roughly poured the bucket of ice cold sea water onto the unconscious woman’s face. She came to consciousness immediately, scrambling back in fear and clutching her now bandaged hand to her chest.
“Gwen Sinclaire, you have received the sentence for assault. In the event of my death, the penalty for manslaughter on the coven records stands as death by beheading,” Emery intoned. The woman cried out in wordless fear. Her reaction did nothing to soften Emery’s demeanor. “Since we are not barbarians on this isle, we would never put the burden of death on one of our coven. In this case, a volunteer has come forward and will execute the sentence of death by beheading.”
“Bring her,” Emery ordered curtly, and stalked off towards the pier.
The twins grabbed the weakly struggling woman by the arms and dragged her like a limp sail behind them. At the edge of the stone fishing jetty, Emery halted and stood sideways, her glance a signal to the sea creature waiting to be seen.
When the twins slung the woman onto her knees at the jetty’s edge, the villagers could easily see what had caused the now crumpled woman to begin sobbing in great wailing cries. A large fin, a set of round black eyes and a short squarish snout protruded from the sea. The large grinning mouth was lined with double rows of jagged teeth. A shark. A very, very large shark.
Notably, the seals were absent, as were the usual sea turtles that flocked to Emery in droves.
“This is Kull. He is a porbeagle shark and while he does not usually partake of human flesh, he has agreed to carry out your sentence of beheading should the time come when that is necessary. If he is no longer alive, his kin will fulfill his duty.”
Emery turned to the sea and bowed to the shark, who immediately sank beneath the waves and was gone. “You are now released to return to your coven. Though I ask that you tell Millicent, Dorothea, Bertha and Letty all you know of the origins of the stone you have tied around my neck. I suggest you stay clear of submerging yourself in the sea for the rest of your life.” With that the young woman stepped onto the waves and was borne out of sight by the large scarred disk of a sea turtle who had appeared magically at her feet.
Mur and Ray hauled the crying Gwen Sinclaire to her feet, threw her onto the waiting back of one of the local donkeys and trekked back to the Abbey. There, over a much needed cup of tea and a small fortifying sandwich, the shaking woman told the four Thorneridge crones everything she knew about the provenance of the Osiris stone. Millicent thanked her politely, bade her a polite goodbye and sincere wishes for her speedy recovery and handed her over once again to the storm-faced twins. They practically carried her to the long stone pier where the Hunter awaited. It only took them twelve hours to return the condemned woman to her clan on the Isle of Skye.
Not even bothering to anchor the Hunter, they simply sailed past the islet that fronted Dunvegan Castle and while Mur stayed aboard, Ray ran the woman to the narrow sand strip in the inflatable dinghy. Several young women saw them coming and met them on the sands. Two of the braver ones took the sagging woman from Ray’s grip and casting him fearful glances, hurried towards the lower level doors of the castle.
Seeing one of the young women’s dirty glance, Ray said firmly, “She got off lightly.” Then roared off on the dinghy to his waiting twin.
That evening, settled once again in the sitting room in front of a roaring fire, Dorothea thought to herself that Emery was no longer a girl. She was a woman, and not just any woman. She was truly a force to be reckoned with. It had not been easy for the young woman to come to the decisions of the morning. She had, however, followed the law of the coven and delivered her verdict with firmness, fairness, and clarity. She had been nothing short of magnificent. It made Dorothea happy and sad at the same time.
She was happy that Emery had turned into such a stellar young woman. She was sad that the great gifts and heavy burden of the Osiris stone that she carried would undoubtedly make her life far more difficult than any young woman should have to endure.
Whoever said that with great gifts came great responsibility, hadn’t been joking. It was even more difficult when the gifts weren’t sought after, but simply bestowed without warning. Emery hadn’t asked for any of it. That was just how life was. It gave you things you didn’t want - then expected you to either deal with them constructively or give up. Emery would most likely never do the latter. Dealing with the former constructively was very hard work.
Chapter Sixteen
Society For Beginners
Some of the information Gwen Sinclaire had imparted to the crones wasn’t news to them. Other parts of the story were. What had surprised them all, and cemented their lack of sympathy for Gwen, was that there had been an alternative to sending the stone to Emery, she’d just been too lazy to investigate it. In the box the stone collar had been stored in for the last thousand years, had been an instruction sheet for meeting a person in Paris should the need to protect or relocate the collar ever arise.
Gwen, having decided that a one-thousand year old missive couldn’t possibly hold still-valid information and had simply ignored it. She’d given as close of a detailed description of the instructions on the ancient parchment to the crones and when pressed for more, simply told them she’d burned the scraps of the parchment after sending the collar to Emery. That had cemented the Thorneridge coven’s lack of sympathy for the spineless woman.
What they had to go on was only what she could remember. The missive had stated something along the lines of, as far as the olde English translation had stated and that any of her clan could translate, “See the Canton blood-priestess in Paris and ask for the oldest blood.”
Not that any of that made sense to the crones, except they assumed the ‘blood’ referrals in the missive translated loosely into ‘vampire’ in today’s lingo. They would send out feelers to the Parisian covens and see what came back to them. For now, they needed to fortify their island home and decide how best to protect themselves, Emery, and the coven.
The following weeks were a flurry of activity and intensive study for Emery. She read dozens of manuscripts from the vaults of the Abbey trying to find information that might help her understand the purpose of the collar and the history of different vampire clans. She’d never even met a vampire, so the history was fascinating and confounding at the same time.
Feedback from the crone's inquiries trickled in from different sources in France and eventually, bits and pieces of information began to take shape. What it seemed to indicate was that the oldest clan of vampires had originated from Egypt during the ritual described by the conclave of covens Emery had attended the previous month.
The Egyptian general that had been the victim of the ritual, a great warrior named Saulaces, had conquered lands for the pharaohs into what was now modern day Georgia. He’d settled an area known as Colchis and had died there in a great battle. What little the history transcripts described was the long bloodbath of slaughter that took place after the ceremony had gone awry and most likely, after Saulaces had escaped the chamber they’d tried to entomb him in. Reports seemed to indicate that he’d been trapped in the unfinished tomb for several hundred years.
The only information that the Parisian covens had wa
s that the oldest vampire clan in Paris was known as the Colchi. That was the extent of it. No one had ever seen any of the members of the Colchi clan, though more modern strains of vampire were often included in societal events, or at least, rumor had it.
To know more, they would have to try and contact whomever the manuscripts described as the Canton blood priestess. The only way to do that was to go to Paris and try to network through the covens there to connect with a vampire clan that might be willing to help them. It was a chance, but a very nebulous one that might or might not bear fruit.
Nonetheless, it was decided that Dorothea, Millicent, Emery and the twins would go to Paris. Bertha and Letty, with the assistance of Kern and the blacksmith, would continue the fortifications of the island.
In order to go to Paris and not stick out like sore thumbs, the five of them were going to have to get different clothing. Off to London they went, sailing first to Arisaig, they berthed the Hunter in a rented slip and then boarding a series of trains, made their way to the shopping mecca of Oxford Street, where a tartan kilt and wool sweater wouldn’t necessarily seem outlandish, just perhaps not the norm.
